


Thrall

by ShameWithoutSin



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Affairs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cheating, Coercion, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Forced Abortion, Underage Sex, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2019-11-01 13:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 29
Words: 92,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShameWithoutSin/pseuds/ShameWithoutSin
Summary: Christine was truly alone in the world. He was bored. What dark secrets will she uncover about her mysterious new teacher? What is the cost of becoming a muse? Modern AU. See A/N.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very dark and bleak story. Christine is **underage**. Erik is **manipulative** and **abusive**. Many people will read this and tell me things are OOC but I likely will not agree. Many people will read this and say that it is **romanticizing domestic abuse and violence**. Keep in mind that we are reading through the perspective of the **victim** and **perpetrator**. This is a **modern AU** with **Kay** and **Leroux** influences. It deals with **mental illness** , **abuse** (both mental and physical) **, drug abuse** and **coercion.** This story is not something I would ever want to happen in real life but it is **very real**. _Things like this happen every single day around the world_. **I feel that this is a very important story to tell and it is not told enough for fear of backlash.** I am aware of the critiques this will receive and that it will absolutely **not** be everyone's cup of tea. _It will make people uncomfortable. It should_ _._ **If you are in an abusive situation, be it romantic partners, familial or roommates, please reach out. There is help available even in what seems like a hopeless situation and** _**I will gladly help you find local resources**_ **.** It is **never** too late to seek help and you are worth **so much more** than your situation.

Christine Daae was the girl that was always picked last in gym. Sometimes she thought that if he wasn't contractually obligated to remember then even the teacher would forget about her. It wasn't because she was bad at sports or mean or annoying she just - was.

Her blond hair was frizzy and her eyes were a plain ole blue. She was quiet and pale and all of the things that didn't really make a whole lot of friends.

And maybe she wasn't great at sports, now that she really thought about it. The asthma didn't help and she was nearsighted. Or farsighted. She couldn't really remember which one - whichever one meant she had to hold her book real close to read it. She was pretty short, too. She still thought she was pretty good at dodgeball, though, so she wasn't really sure _why_ no one wanted her, but they didn't.

That was a pretty common theme in her life. No one wanting her.

Mom ran out pretty quick once she was born. She didn't want a kid and a husband and Christine guessed maybe she just realized that a little late. The only one that ever really wanted her was her dad and he was dead so she thought maybe it was better if no one wanted her because maybe she was a little bit cursed like the crazy lady that slept in the cardboard box said.

Christine was pretty smart, though. She thought she was. She just couldn't see the board. The teachers kept putting her in the back of the class and she spent more time doodling in her notebook then she did actually learning. Her grades were okay. She wasn't failing but she definitely wasn't honor roll material.

Today it was geometry. She was squinting at her book, her head almost all the way on her desk as she stared at the fuzzy numbers. Sometimes Mr Gondell accused her of sleeping in class and said that was why she wasn't doing great but Christine didn't ever sleep in class. It was just really hard to follow along with his lessons. The numbers he wrote on the board were a blur to her and a lot of times the division sign looked too much like a plus sign. Christine hated that he used examples that weren't in the book because the book was the only thing close enough for her to actually see. So she tried her best to understand, even though the book said five and he said eight and he used z when the book said y. Mostly she tried to spend a lot of time on the homework - the answers for the even numbers were in the back of her book and sometimes she had to start at the answer and work her way backwards to figure out how to do things.

Today she decided that following along with the lesson was a wasted effort - he was talking too fast and his writing was sloppy - so she flipped to the practice questions at the end of the chapter and wrote out number one in her notebook. She wasn't sure what would be assigned but she usually did all of them. She needed it anyway, even if sometimes Mr Gondell teased her for that. "I'm not just giving you extra credit just because you decided to do more work, Miss Daae. You can stop trying that now."

Christine still did all of the questions. She just recopied the ones that were assigned and turned them in. No one checked her work so she wasn't really sure if she was doing it right or not but even when she turned the extra ones in he wouldn't check them, he would just make fun of her and she would turn that ugly red color that she hated. So she just quietly did them and hoped the practice helped, even if maybe she didn't get the right answers.

"Miss Daae, are you still with us?"

Christine jumped. She always did when her name was called. Mr Gondell was the only teacher that seemed to really notice her. Maybe she should have appreciated that but it just seemed like he liked to embarrass her sometimes. That was really why Christine hated geometry. She hadn't really ever been bullied, just ignored and she didn't really mind being ignored that much. They stared at each other for a long time.

Mr Gondell was pretty short, too. He had a thin nose and thin lips and his hair was just brown, kind of like Christine's eyes were just blue. She wondered if maybe he kinda saw himself a little bit when he looked at her and that was why he was mean. She hoped that she wouldn't be mean like him when she got older. But he had a ring and someone married him so Christine thought maybe that wasn't really all it was.

"... and apparently we've gone mute again," Mr Gondell sighed, clapping his hands together. "Alright, well. Class is almost over, odd questions one through twenty five due at the _beginning_ of class tomorrow."

There were groans from around the room and Christine slid further down in her chair. She could feel the heat in her ears and forehead and knew she was bright red.

"That is one through twenty five, Miss Daae. Not one through thirty eight. And only the odd ones." He was staring straight at her.

Christine had honestly believed that freshman year would be the worst. That's what all of the popular media seemed to say - that's what Mrs Valerius told her when she came home crying one day. It only took three months for her to decide it was a lie. Sophomore year had been its own special kind of Hell, mostly thanks to the maths teacher that couldn't seem to keep himself from calling her out loudly. And she didn't do anything _wrong_ , that was what really got her. She never did anything but sit quietly and do her work. "I understand," she squeaked out nervously.

The bell ringing was her only relief. She shoved her books into her raggedy black backpack, hanging the strap that wasn't worn through over her shoulder as she bowed her head and scurried quickly out of the classroom. If she lingered, Mr Gondell would find something else to say to her. She had learned that pretty quickly.

Choir was her last class of the day. Sometimes she thought that was the only thing that kept her from having a mental breakdown. Music calmed her. The class didn't go much different than any other - she was quiet and minded her own business - but even in the back row of the second sopranos she felt a calmness. The fact that she couldn't see very well didn't hinder her - she could hear the notes played on a piano and emulate them perfectly. She read somewhere that it was called _perfect pitch_. It was probably the only _perfect_ thing about her but she was okay with that.

In choir she could hide in the back, she could listen to the music, and even though the girl she had to sit next to was usually off key she didn't really sing all that much anyway, just moved her lips and pretended to. Christine thought maybe she knew she wasn't very good and that's why she did it.

Passing time was always longer than Christine needed it to be. She usually loaded up all of her books in her bag - she hadn't been to her locker since the first day of school and she honestly wasn't even sure that she remembered the combination - and she didn't really have anyone to loiter around and talk to in the hallways. She was the first one in every class except for Mr Gondell's - she had timed the walk from the bathroom to his classroom and she always found somewhere to hide until she absolutely had to go in.

Christine quietly walked into the classroom, making her way up the choir risers and tucking her backpack under the hard plastic blue chair in the back row.

"Christine," Mr Gabriel, the young chipper and seemingly genuinely kind choir instructor, said from somewhere toward his desk. She hadn't even seen him there when she walked in. "I'm glad you're early, I was hoping to give you a heads up -"

"What?" she asked, standing awkwardly between the chairs. He was standing and moving toward her, likely knowing that she wasn't going to come toward him.

"We are having a guest in class on Friday," he said. "A very accomplished musician. The entire class is expected to prepare a solo pieces. Only a few measures. I just hoped to catch you before class so I didn't blindside you."

"Oh," she said softly. Christine has never once gone up for a solo. She loved music, she loved singing, but she wasn't too confident in her own abilities. She hated being watched. "Do I have to -"

"It's expected," he said with a tense smile. "Don't let it overwhelm you. If you need help picking something you can see me after class. It's only a few seconds. I promise it won't be too painful, even for you."

* * *

Every day that Christine survived the bus ride she counted as a blessing. Everyone was loud and rowdy and she usually sat all the way in the front, directly behind the driver. It was her safest bet to get a seat to herself and to be left alone.

Christine, being the oldest in the small house that was her temporary domain, was always the first home out of the children old enough to be sent off to school. Mrs Valerius was always happy to see her. Christine knew that, despite her less-than-enthusiastic welcoming.

Christine knew because the kind old woman would be waiting near the door for her and almost as soon as her backpack was off her arms would be filled with whichever struggling infant had been the most difficult that day.

There were six of them in the house. Up until about a month before there had only been four. Christine was the oldest, going nearly on sixteen. She was followed by Cindy, 12, Jackson, 10, and Samantha, 6. Jackson, being the only boy, was the only one lucky enough to have a bedroom to himself. Christine, Cindy and Samantha were expected to divide the space in theirs. Christine was only glad that they did get on well or it would be much more miserable.

She would still take sharing a bedroom with a six and twelve year old over the few weeks she had spent in the group home. That, _that_ had been pure Hell on earth and she did her best to forget those few weeks.

The newest addition was a set of twins, one boy and one girl. Mrs Valerius told Christine that their mom hadn't been ready for babies; she was still not over her partying and that's why they were so small. Christine didn't really understand what she meant, all she knew was that Nicole cried a lot and Bradley hardly ever even opened his eyes.

Christine cooed at the rosy-cheeked, wailing baby in her arms and rocked her gently. Mrs Valerius had disappeared already and Christine assumed it was to get some sort of break before her husband came home.

Mrs Valerius was a nice lady. She was just tired. She and Mr Valerius didn't have a whole lot of money and she was disabled in one way or another - Christine wasn't sure how exactly - and that was why they took on foster kids. The extra little bit of money left over after food and thrift shops and hand-me-downs helped a lot.

Mr Valerius wasn't very nice. Christine has seen him hit his wife on more than one occasion. He was haughty and mean and he liked quiet too much to have so many kids in the house. They usually ate their dinner before he got home and then they would disappear into their bedrooms around the time he came in.

Still, it was preferable to the group home. He never did anything outright mean to the kids - just gruffed and grumped - and Christine was okay with that much. She could handle that.

It wasn't like she thought he wanted her anyway. No one did.


	2. Chapter 2

Erik wasn't sure why he insisted on putting himself through this Hell every few years. Boredom was the devil in disguise. Fitting. He supposed some would consider him to be too.

Still, what was the use in aliases if he couldn't use at least one to amuse himself? He had worked fairly hard to craft them all.

Social security numbers weren't that difficult to obtain. It was a funny little discovery, actually. Everything was available for a price, even a birth certificate. It was a happy discovery for a man like him; he didn't have one. It made all of those normal, daily things a bit difficult. Now he had a bouquet to choose from.

Erik the vagabond had terrible credit. Erik the composer made money and hardly spent it. Erik the architect lived somewhere in the middle. He invested in land and homes. Sometimes he purchased businesses and rented them over to his partner - Erik the career criminal. Not that Erik the architect would know anything about that. His partner was notoriously slippery and he had never seen the man in person, of course. He only received checks in the mail every so often with no return address. Once he saw a PO Box in the corner of the envelope - perhaps the investigating parties could find a lead there. If they managed to find him he would appreciate it if they passed along the message that his rent was far overdue and he was dangerously close to eviction. He did so like to be helpful.

Today, though, today he was Erik the charitable composer. He would dedicate a few hours of his life to listening to the screeching of high school students that all believed they would be the next Madonna. He had yet to find a talent worth pursuing. Every few years, though, he would return as the prodigy alumni. No one remembered him attending, of course, but they were more than happy to boast about the success of the man they had _cultivated_. Praise be that he had yet to be asked to name his instructors. Suggestion and a few well placed documents had an astounding amount of power, so much so that he had heard stories about what a wonderful student he had been muttered by a few of the teachers that had been there since God had raised man from the dirt.

Erik the composer had brown eyes that irritated him terribly. The contacts had been custom order and far more expensive than he thought they should be. Still, they were passable enough and the darker color hid the yellow beneath them far more reliably than the blue set that belonged to the architect. The architect had been complimented on his eye color - amazing how they seemed blue in some light and nearly green in others. The composer had a thin nose and thin lips to go along with it. He wasn't terribly attractive but he was better than the corpse that hid under the fleshy rubber. The adhesive was irritating and inflamed his already terrible visage but it was manageable for the few hours he usually needed it for. At times he found it prudent to don a wig - this version of him didn't. He allowed it to keep his natural, thick, black hair. He felt a certain fondness for the composer that he didn't quite feel for the other characters he had created for himself. Music had carried him through his _humble_ beginnings. If he had to choose one identity that he could fully become, that would be it. Maybe that was why he wasn't the most attractive man in the world. He was rooted far too firmly in reality for it.

Erik held his eyelid open wide with two fingers and used the tip of his left pointer finger to place the contact carefully. He always blinked like an idiot for a moment afterwards - no amount of experience with the damn things would ever make them comfortable but he had gotten fairly good at placing them with only a quick glance in the mirror after to make sure they actually sat correctly.

The mask was far more difficult and he often had to stare at himself as he set it in place. It had taken a lot of tweaking from purchase to make it suitable for everyday wear. He had spent hours perfecting the nose, getting it to a state where it didn't droop awkwardly, constructing the inner workings so that he wouldn't have to breathe through his mouth when he wore it. It took him far too long to prepare to go out. Even when he managed to line the edges of the mask correctly it was at least another hour of small tweaks, being sure that the edges of the lips lined up naturally, covering the sallow yellow of the skin around his eyes, powdering the still-too-shiny rubbery mask, managing to match his skin to the mask - or the mask to his skin. Sometimes he had difficulty deciding which it was that he really did.

When it was all in place he would stare at himself in the gold-leafed bathroom mirror, turning his head and searching for spots that caught the light just a bit too obviously, analyzing the edges and looking for an unnatural crease or an unintended bump.

He chose Fridays for a reason. The over enthusiastic teenagers would be just as eager to escape the confines of the stuffy room as he would be. He had already been attempting to mentally prepare himself for the irritation of the fluorescent lights and the staff that would be far-too-eager to shake his hand and congratulate him on whatever he had last published. Truth be told he didn't even remember what it was. He had a tendency to fall into creating - for weeks he would lock himself away and compose. Afterwards he would crash, sleeping a few days before he would go through the pieces. He had a backlog long enough that it would be years before he truly needed to write anything.

Erik, satisfied that his mask was convincing enough, made his way from the bathroom, bending over to run his bony hand down the back of the spoiled Siamese cat that lay on the red velvet settee at the foot of his bed. She only blinked up at him and half heartedly swatted at his hand.

Yes, Erik found a true companion in Ayesha. She was a pretty cat with big blue eyes and an attitude that rivaled his own.

Erik paused only a moment to look at himself in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door, making sure that the mask was truly in place, his black shirt was buttoned and pressed correctly, his jeans were well-fitted, his red tie was straight. When he was satisfied he ran a bony hand through his hair, messing it just the slightest bit. Things couldn't be _too_ perfect.

* * *

It took about thirty minutes to thoroughly exhaust Erik. His flowery introduction to the class had been far too much and the principal was more interested in trying to con some donation or another out of him than he was in the well-being and education of his students. Erik couldn't fault him too much for it. The man certainly wasn't an idiot by any stretch of the imagination.

Nearing the end of the last class of the day Erik has been completely prepared to pack up his things and leave. He had been in the middle of just that when he was informed that there was still one student that hadn't been afforded the opportunity to sing for him. The _only_ reason he sat back down was because she looked just as disappointed to be remembered as he had been to learn that they day couldn't end yet.

She was a plain girl. Her hair was yellow, her sweatshirt was oversized and stained. Her jeans practically hung on her small waist, held only by a graying black belt that had certainly seen better days. Erik was rather familiar with the look and smell of poverty. That, combined with her seeming refusal to look at him, intrigued him to no end. She handed him a single, wrinkled sheet of music and proceeded to shove her hands in the pocket of her hoody. He could see the tip of her thumb through the hole in the bottom of it.

"And what part will you be singing today?" he asked, eyeing the choral arrangement of Ave Maria. She seemed to be the only student that had chosen a piece from the class - the only one that hadn't chosen some pop or rock ballad. He was fully preparing himself to be disappointed.

"Soprano, sir," she said meekly, her cheeks turning painfully red almost instantly. "Second soprano."

"If you are going to sing for me, you will sing first," he interjected. "Mr Gabriel has already informed me of how long this piece has been worked on. You ought to know the part by now."

"I do," she answered quietly, staring down at her worn sneakers. "Okay. First soprano, sir."

With their agreement and, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the mild-mannered girl, he began to play. Four measures in, he stopped. He could see her lips moving but there was no sound emitting from between them. Almost as though they were attached by a wire, her mouth snapped shut at the exact moment he stopped playing. "I did not tell you to stop," he pointed out impatiently. "Do you not know the music?"

"I know the music," she murmured under her breath. "But the accompaniment-"

"I cannot hear you over it!" Erik was already done. He never had much patience to begin with. "If you know the music then take your hands out of your pockets and sing! Otherwise you are wasting my and everyone else's in this rooms time."

To his surprise she obeyed. Her hands slid out of her pockets and, despite the burning red in her cheeks, she nodded, looking at him. "I'm sorry. I'll sing."

Sing she did. The accompaniment was softer, her voice was louder, and Erik wasn't sure what exactly he thought as he listened to her. There was a certain tonal quality that he could pick out under the waiver of her nerves. Her technique was atrocious; her breaths were out of place and without support the high notes fell flat and were clipped short. There was potential there. The same voice from another girl may have been passed over entirely by him but something about it, about her voice paired with her obvious shyness, drew him in and left him wondering if he had finally found the project he had searched for so desperately.

They made it through the entire song before the bell began to ring. Erik had nearly forgotten about his attempt at escape and looked at her carefully. "What else do you know?"

She stared at him silently and just as he began to open his mouth again Mr Gabriel came to her rescue.

"Dr Harris, they won't hold the busses."

Erik waved his hand dismissively. "They can go. She will stay. What is your name?"

"... Christine," she answered softly. "Dr Harris, if I don't get to the bus -"

"You will get home, Christine. I will be sure of it. What else do you know?"

The most intriguing thing about her was that she needed no music. Just as he didn't. He could play a round of notes and she imitated it as perfectly as one could without any formal training. As she began to relax he was able to hear her natural vibrato, her bright, sunny tone when she shifted her voice to a better place. She had potential. With some polish and proper technique, a few years of aging, she could shine. And so, after approximately half and hour of tinkering, of classical music and warm-ups, pop ballads and a few vocal exercises, Erik stood and turned to look at her, uttering the words he had never expected to hear from his own mouth.

"Christine, I would like to teach you."


	3. Chapter 3

_I would like to teach you._

For a long time, Christine stared at him. She wasn't sure what to say, or what to think. Her. Teach her. Of all of the people that had stood up and sang for him, _her_. No one ever saw her. She had never been anything special to anyone but her father.

Here was a highly respected and admired composer, picking _her_.

When she found her voice again, it was stuttering. "I - I can't, I mean… I can't pay you or -"

"Don't insult me," he answered, his tone light. "The only payment I will require is your dedication - to music and your lessons. I can make you something, Christine. You only have to be willing to put in the work."

She swallowed thickly. "You don't want me to pay you?"

"My work will be repaid in time," he answered, tilting his head as he seemed to consider her. "Anyone else would be overjoyed but you seem… frightened. What are you afraid of, Christine?"

She pulled at her hoody. What _was_ she afraid of? It was a simple question but she wasn't sure how to put her answer into words without offending him. It was honestly herself that she was afraid of. If she didn't believe in herself how could anyone else? Her dad has shaped her dreams for her. She would be someone, be something. He had filled her head with the image of her name up in lights. He had often told her that she sang before she talked, that music was what she was meant for, that God's plan would fall into place and she would find the opportunity if she only believed hard enough. Maybe that was what she was afraid of. What if she didn't have it in her? She wasn't sure that she would want to know. Would he be disappointed if she couldn't do it? Would he be disappointed if she didn't take the chance?

"It's a simple question, Christine," he said, his voice smooth and honeyed. "All you have to say is yes or no. Let me help you."

She blinked at him. The dulcet tone of his voice was relaxing and reassuring. She took a moment to look at him; really look at him. His thin build and thick hair, his slender musician's fingers, his nice clothes, his intimidating height.

"I see you, Christine," he murmured, sitting back on the edge of the piano bench. "I see you - really see you - just as you are. I see what you can be. No one has ever seen you before, have they? They didn't see me either, Christine. Work with me. Say yes."

"Why me?" she whispered, the question burning and refusing to be held back.

He stared at her, drawing the tips of his fingers together in a temple in his lap. "You are what I've been searching for," he said slowly. "I didn't know it, could never quite pin it down, but now I know. It was you. You will be helping me just as much as I will you, Christine."

Her name on his lips made her shiver. His low voice caressed each consonant and vowel as though they were sacred. Something about him screamed danger to her but she looked into his eyes and all she could see was gentle honesty.

"I - I'll try," she answered eventually.

"That wasn't the question," he murmured. "I need to know that you will dedicate yourself; to the music and your voice. I am a demanding teacher, Christine. I will push you. I will make you shine if you let me. But I need your full dedication. I will make you shine but I need your full trust."

"I'll trust you." His words were pretty and confident and she wasn't sure that she could find it in her to turn her back on them.

"No matter what," he added, his eyes still fully trained on her. She nodded and he sighed, seeming to relax with her agreement. "We will do wonders together, Christine. You and I. We will start Monday, after school. You will meet me in practice room B. Two thirty exactly. I will expect punctuality. That is when the work will begin."

"Are we - are we finished for today then?" Christine couldn't quite keep the desperate edge out of her voice. The music felt safe. His melody had wrapped around her and she felt free in a way she hadn't since her father died. When he played it was almost like her dad was there again, standing right beside her. Even through the most simple exercises he had guided her on she felt him there, his hand on her shoulder while he whispered all those long-forgotten dreams in her ear with a voice she could hardly remember.

"You seem disappointed," he said sympathetically. "Only for today, sweetheart. We have many months and years of music ahead of us, I promise. It is good for you to be disappointed. Promising, indeed. But I couldn't forgive myself for encouraging your bad habits. On Monday we will start from scratch." He stood suddenly, snapping the top of his briefcase that rested on the lid of the piano closed. "Come. I will take you home, Christine."

* * *

Her fingers were warm. He hadn't actually expected her to take his hand when he offered it but she had; it was too late to take it back and all he could think about was how utterly warm and soft her fingers were. When he heard her sing he thought he was lost. It was really when she touched him. He wouldn't be able to explain what exactly he felt other than warm but it was there, blossoming, and he wasn't sure that it was an entirely good development.

She hadn't flinched at his cold skin. She hadn't seemed to notice it at all.

Christine didn't seem quite as plain when he glanced back at her. She had a youthful aura about her that was difficult to pin down. Her eyes were bright blue and if her hair was properly cared for he was certain it would be the envy of her classmates. Her pale skin seemed to have a certain glow about it that he hadn't noticed upon his first appraisal of her - maybe it hadn't been there. Maybe it was only hope that brought it in.

Polish to her voice, polish to her appearance and she would never be forgotten again. Erik was almost envious of her - the work would fall on him and he had no doubt she would reap the benefits. She was young, malleable, and so long as he was careful to keep her in line and on track she would flourish beautifully.

Even as he led her through the nearly empty hallways and bright fluorescent lights out toward the parking lot his mind wandered far. He was home already, tucked away in his music room and digging through sheets of music.

Erik released her hand to dig through his pockets for his car keys. It wasn't until he unlocked it and threw his briefcase thoughtlessly into the back seat that he glanced over at her and saw the wide-eyed way she stared at his dark grey BMW, her arms wrapped tightly over her chest.

If she was so easily impressed it boded well for him.

He walked around the car and held the passenger door open for her, waiting patiently for her to climb in. She slowly buckled the seatbelt, chewing the inside of her lip and looking over the leather interior. Erik closed the door and slid into his own seat, turning the key and lowering the volume of the radio so that he could hear her easily over it.

There was already quite a stack of music in his mind as he asked her for her address and pulled out of the parking lot.

"What kind of music do you like, Christine?" he finally thought to ask, attempting to distract her from the nervous way she evaluated his car.

"Oh," she answered softly, staring out of the window. "I like - I like a lot of music."

Erik had always hated the cop-out of an answer. "Tupac and Britney Spears," he teased gently. The fact that she had slipped so easily back into her nerves was disheartening - just another hurdle to get over. He was more than sure there would be a few of them.

"No," she huffed. "I mean, I like a song or two by Britney. But I like - I mean, I really like a little bit of most of everything. I really like music."

He hummed, glancing at her at a red light. "Tell me what you want to sing. If you had to pick one song right now, what would it be?"

"It's gonna sound really stupid," she said softly.

Judgement. He had already learned it was a fear of hers. If she was quiet and hid she never had to disappoint anyone. Erik recognized it because it was familiar - he had lived that way for a long while too. "Tell me anyway," he coaxed. "I would like to start you with something you _want_ to sing."

"Do you know Cirque Du Soleil?" she asked, finally looking at him.

"It would be difficult not to," he answered. "It's quite popular."

She nodded, tucking her frizzy curls nervously behind her ear and looking back out of the window. "They have a really pretty song that they use. I like it a lot. I think Josh Groban sang it too. It's… I really like it." She paused, taking a deep breath. "It goes… _Let me fall, let me climb_ … I really like it a lot. I would sing that one."

Her voice was shaky and nervous. She was sitting down and she still wasn't breathing properly. Erik still heard something almost reverent in the two short lines she let herself sing. "I know it," he said, putting the car in park in the driveway of her little ramshackled house. "It is a pretty song. It will need some transposing but I will have it ready for you on Monday. We will start with that. Do you remember, Christine?"

"Two thirty," she answered. "Practice room B."

"Very good," he murmured. "Enjoy your weekend and be refreshed and ready to work come Monday."

Erik had originally thought to order her an Uber when he promised to get her home. He hadn't been able to do it. She was his project. She was precious cargo and he wasn't going to put her in a car with a stranger and wish her luck - he knew what lurked in the world, particularly in the area she lived, and mostly because he _was_ one of those things that lurked. She didn't need to know that.

He sat in the driveway until he watched her disappear into the house.

* * *

"Where have you been?"

Mrs Valerius' voice was the first thing Christine heard as the door latched behind her. She knew that she should have called but she didn't have a cell phone and she would have had to walk away from the music and…

"The most wonderful thing happened!" Christine said, unable to hold it back anymore.

"I'm sure it has."

Christine's excitement melted away into guilt as Mrs V came around the corner, a baby in each arm and her hair disheveled. Mrs V took on a lot of work and she was always tired, so tired. Christine stepped forward and took one of the wriggling infants into her arms. "I'm sorry that I'm so late," she offered.

Mrs V waved her free hand dismissively. "Bradley needs a change," she instructed. "They both ate - Cindy beat you home and she needs help with her hair - she has a school concert or something tonight."

"Mrs V?" Christine asked softly, shifting the babe in her arms.

"Hm?"

"I'm - I'm going to be late on Monday too. And… I might be a little late every day this week."

Mrs V smiled tiredly. "I suppose Cindy is old enough to start picking up some of the slack," she sighed. "Don't be out all night and stay out of trouble, Christine. You're a good girl. I'd hate to see that start to change now."


	4. Chapter 4

Christine wore her best clothes. They still weren't great but there were no holes in her grey t-shirt and her jeans actually fit - she had thrown them in the dryer with a load of Mrs V's clothes the night before just to make sure that they would. If Christine _owned_ makeup she probably would've used it. She was almost glad she didn't - she had a feeling she would've looked more like a clown than anything. She had even thought to tuck her hairbrush into her backpack and double checked to make sure she had a hair tie on her wrist before she left the house to go to her bus stop.

She floated through school. Even Mr Gondell's relentless teasing hadn't been enough to bring her down. Come to think of it, she had hardly finished the homework. She had spent her weekend floating too, helping Mrs V around the house and humming to herself. Mrs V said it was nice to see her so cheerful. Christine wondered if it was too early to be hopeful but she had already begun to build a castle in her head - he seemed so sure, so confident and with his resume, well, he must know _something_ , right?

Two thirty in practice room B. She had repeated it to herself a million times, worried that she would forget it. He seemed the serious type - she was half afraid that if she was a minute late he would withdraw his offer completely. Christine wasn't sure why that scared her. It certainly wasn't like she had expected anything like this to happen to her.

The bell rang at two sixteen. By two twenty she was already standing outside of the heavy practice room door. She killed as much time as she could by pulling her hair into a sloppy ponytail but she had nothing more to fill the long minutes with. Better early than late, she thought, pushing the door open.

He was already there. His briefcase was on the floor and he was sitting on the piano bench, the upright piano completely opened in front of him. He didn't jump - he only glanced toward her as she closed the door behind her.

"You're early."

He didn't sound annoyed. If anything he seemed halfway pleased. Christine let herself relax with that. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Better here, then," he said, standing and making his way to her. He slid the backpack off of her shoulder and paused, holding it by the handle. "Do you have a locker, Christine?"

"Yeah," she answered, crossing her arms. "Why?"

She watched speechlessly as he sat on the piano bench and unzipped her backpack, digging through it. "Five textbooks," he counted. "Three notebooks - and a novel. Use your locker. This is too much weight to carry around all day. And for god's sake, use both straps."

"It's broken," she mumbled in a half-hearted defense of herself.

"What is?"

"The other strap."

His long fingers ran over the broken strap. "So it is," he muttered, more to himself than her. "Probably because you carry so much around. Use your locker."

She nodded, feeling her blush color her cheeks. With her nod he zipped the backpack closed again, setting it just behind the door.

"I am not quite ready yet," he said, returning his attention to the piano and plucking a single key. "These instruments are abysmally maintained. I don't think this piano has been tuned in a decade. You will have to bear with me."

"I don't mind," she admitted quietly. "I'm just happy to be here."

He reached into the piano, turning something that she couldn't see from where she stood by the door. "Your parents are okay with the arrangement?" he asked, reaching down and pressing a single key on the piano with his free hand.

Christine slid down, sitting against the wall. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on top of them as she watched him work. "Mrs V told me to be good and not to stay out all night. I didn't really… tell her, I guess. I just said I would be late."

"Who is Mrs V?" he asked, his eyes trained on the piano strings.

"My foster mom," she answered quietly. "And Mr V won't really care as long as I'm quiet when I get home."

"Foster care," he muttered, plucking at another key. "Are your parents dead or unsuitable?"

The odd thing was, Christine felt like he was actually listening to her. He didn't turn toward her, he didn't give any indication other than his basic questions but something in her believed that he genuinely _wanted_ to know. "My dad died when I was six," she answered, trying not to dwell too hard on the thought. "I never knew my mom. She left when I was real little and from what I understand, cuz I mean, I listen a lot, she signed some papers so she didn't have to deal with me anymore. I dunno if she even knows that dad's dead or where I am."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Christine believed, wholeheartedly, that he was. He said it with such a sympathetic tone that it would have been hard to convince her that he was lying.

"Why did you not tell this Mrs V about our lessons?" he asked eventually, breaking the silence that had settled between the infrequent notes that rang out as he tested his tuning.

Christine shrugged, leaning back against the wall. "She didn't ask. She had - well, she has a lot to worry about. I try my best to not make things harder."

"She is responsible for you and has no interest in your whereabouts?" he asked softly. "I think I am beginning to understand you."

He was silent for a long moment and then, finally, he stood.

"Stand up," he demanded. "We are ready - do not be discouraged, Christine. I have your music and it is ready for you but we may not get to singing - not in these first few lessons. From the ground up, yes?"

"Right," she answered softly as she pulled herself up. Christine had no idea what she was agreeing with but she thought he must be right. He had complained about her technique. She had no idea what exactly that meant but she guessed that whatever it was, he would fix it.

"Back against the wall, Christine," he said, two of his fingers pressing against her shoulder. "We will begin with posture - it's the foundation we will build on. This is why I do not want you carrying so much around. Your posture is already terrible."

She lined herself against the wall as best she could. "Like this?"

"Somewhat," he murmured. His long fingers reached behind her head, pulling the hair tie out. "It will disrupt the lesson," he said, only half apologetically as he held it out to her. He stood back from her a great distance but his hands brushed against her gently.

Christine found herself holding her breath as he pushed her shoulders back.

"Don't lock your knees," he pointed out. "You should know that well enough singing in a choir."

"M'sorry," she mumbled, trying her best to relax.

He sighed, hooking one of his long, cool fingers under her chin and tilting it up. "Better," he said, looking into her eyes. "How does this feel, Christine?"

"... Weird," she admitted, swallowing slowly. He was staring straight into her eyes and there was something… well, something just a bit _off_ that she couldn't really put her finger on.

"Uncomfortable?"

"No, just," she sighed. "Just different."

"Good. Different is exactly how it should feel," he said softly, taking a step back and looking her over carefully. "Eventually it will become second nature… just make sure to keep your chin level. You stare at your feet far too much. Think of it like a straw. If you bend a straw it is quite difficult to use. The same applies to airflow. Does that make any sense at all?"

"Yeah," she answered simply, suddenly uncomfortable under his eyes.

"Does it really?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "If it doesn't then tell me - I do want you to understand what we are doing. If you don't then I'm afraid you won't understand it's importance."

"It does," she said softly. "It really does, Dr -"

"Erik," he said simply, cutting her off.

"... what?"

"My name is Erik," he said, sliding the edge of his pointer finger under her chin to correct her already slipping posture. "That is what I want you to call me."

"Okay," she whispered. Christine wasn't sure what the sudden twist in her stomach was but he didn't give her long to dwell on it.

He blinked, gave her half a smile and said, "Breathing is important. Probably the most important thing next to posture. Take a deep breath, Christine."

She gave her best effort. She always got nervous when the doctor told her to take a deep breath too. His finger under her chin was almost as cold as the stethoscope and her breath quivered as she pulled it in.

"Absolutely wrong in every way." He didn't sound annoyed; instead he sounded almost amused. "Try again. I am only here to help you, Christine, not judge you. You have no reason to be so nervous."

Her next breath was just a little steadier, just a little more firm.

"Better," he said slowly. "Still wrong but much, _much_ better." His hand moved slowly, the tips of his fingers brushing against her stomach gently, just under her ribcage. "You should feel it here, not in your chest. Close your eyes and try again."

She wanted to tell him to stop touching her. Something about it was ridiculously distracting and she wasn't sure why. His touch was cold, almost clinical. It wasn't _inappropriate_ but something told her that the flutter deep in her stomach when his fingers brushed over her _was_.

Instead of saying anything she closed her eyes, just as he asked, and took another deep breath.

"Good," he said softly. "Better. Much, much better, Christine. You see? Hardly twenty minutes in and we've already made some progress. That is how it should feel _every_ time."

Despite his assurance that she was now breathing _correctly_ , like she ever would have known there was a _wrong_ way to breathe, he continued with the exercises for far longer than Christine would have thought they needed to.

By the time he let her stop she was ready to hold her breath in defiance.

"We will do a few warm-ups," he promised her when they finished. "Then I will take you home. It's already getting late… how old are you, Christine?"

She was already sure that she would have trouble keeping up with his bouncing thoughts. He seemed to change topics on a dime and she hesitated for a moment, not sure if she had heard his question right. "I'm fifteen," she answered eventually, realizing that if she didn't give him something he would just keep staring at her in that way that made her nervous. "I'll be sixteen in a month and a half."

"The voice does not fully develop until the late teens if you are lucky, sometimes not until the early twenties," he said matter-of-factly, sitting at the piano and glancing toward her. "I say this because I do not want you to be discouraged if you are not yet ready for the pieces you want to sing or if you struggle a bit in the beginning. It is completely natural and we will not want to push it - not when you are still developing and can so easily be damaged. Your range will shift; your vibrato and control may be atrocious for a time. We will battle through it. It is all perfectly normal. So long as you stay here, with me, we will navigate it perfectly fine."

She didn't answer him. She wasn't sure what kind of answer to give him that didn't sound like doubt. _If my voice isn't developed how do you know that it's actually any good?_ Eventually he played a simple scale with one hand.

"Hum, Christine. Do not forget your posture and breathing, even with a hum."

They ran through the scale multiple times, rising up it and descending. First on a hum, on staccato 'ah's, and then on an 'ooh'.

He gave no verbal indication that he was finished with her for the day. He simply stood, suddenly, and reached for her backpack. He slid the single intact strap over his own shoulder, picked up his still unopened briefcase and led her out into the deserted hallway.

This time, when he led her to the BMW in the parking lot, she didn't stare at it open-mouthed. She simply climbed into the passenger seat and buckled herself in.

He was silent up until he pulled into her driveway, shifting the car into park.

"You will come to me tomorrow," he murmured. "At the same time. Do not forget to use your locker, Christine, and remember your posture. The best thing you can do is practice it. We will work on your vowels."

Christine felt almost robotic as she climbed out of his car. She dug through the backseat for her backpack and when she finally got inside of the house she leaned against the door for a long minute.

Eventually she pulled the door back open, peeking out to find the driveway empty.

She wasn't sure why she suddenly felt so confused.


	5. Chapter 5

Christine could hardly see her own fingers in front of her face.

For Erik, it was a delightful little discovery. It was no wonder that he had been able to slide up so close to her without her questioning a thing about his appearance. When everything was a blur she didn't even have half a chance of picking up on his less-than-perfect mask.

He discovered it during her second music lesson. Which was also where he discovered that she was completely unaccustomed to gifts.

He bought her a backpack. It was nothing particularly fancy or expensive. He had spent a while looking them over, trying to decide which one would be right for her. Nothing flashy; he was sure that she didn't want anything that would draw too much attention to her.

He would break her of that, eventually, but for now he decided it was best not to push her.

So he settled on a simple, sturdy black backpack that nearly matched the one she already had.

When he presented it to her, in the most casual way he could manage, the girl almost cried.

Erik wasn't sure what to do with her gratitude. He had never done anything honestly selfless in his life, even now, and he had certainly never been thanked the way she thanked him. Most of his dealings with people tended to be strictly business arrangements; the type of business he frequently attended had no room for teary-eyed thank yous.

Something about it, while uncomfortable, was incredibly endearing to Erik. He watched her as she went to the floor on her knees, excitedly shuffling things out of her old backpack into her new one.

This time, there were only two textbooks.

Christine was predisposed to obedience. Some, like him, had an intrinsic rebellion toward authority. Some, like his little songbird, craved it.

Songbird. He wasn't sure where exactly the sweet thought came from; he had almost surprised himself when it flitted through his head. Then again, that's exactly what she was, wasn't it? His little songbird. His pet project.

Christine craved attention. She didn't want to be told not to be out all night; she wanted to be asked where she was going. It wasn't hard to piece together, not for Erik, at least. It was a thought that he filed away. It would not be so difficult, he thought, to at least feign interest in her mundane little life. In all truth, he wasn't even sure that he would be feigning it. Something about her was incredibly interesting to him; she was fascinating in her simplicity. The girl just wanted someone to pay attention to her, to praise her a little bit.

When he lined her up against the wall again, she didn't complain. She let him lay his hand lightly over that space between the underwire of her bra and her bellybutton as he measured her breaths.

Erik was starved but it might not be in the ways some would think; sex was easy enough to come by, even for someone like  _him_. Maybe especially for someone like him. He had no true attachments, no moral obligations to the women whose beds he had fallen into. It was a need like any other and he felt no more attachment to it than he did to whatever he ate for breakfast. Far be it from him to judge the women that only required a drink or two and a few pretty words to loosen them up enough to spread their legs. When he was particularly lazy he found that there was very little money  _couldn't_ buy.

It wasn't sex that he was starved for. It was true intimacy that ran deeper than mindless rutting. It was there that he thought perhaps he and Christine did have  _something_ in common.

Her posture was perfect, if not a little stiff, and it was obvious that she had been practicing her breathing. As tempted as he was to stay there, to insist there was something she needed to change, give some slight tweak, there was nothing to correct and try as he might to ignore it her discomfort was obvious, even to him.

He forced himself away from her, made her run through a range of warm-ups and finally handed her the sheets of music.

"Do you sight read?"

"What?" she asked. She was blushing and Erik wasn't really sure why.

"You've been in choir for some time, I assume. Do you know how to sight read music?"

"Oh," she answered, shifting awkwardly. "Yeah, we do that sometimes. I've never done it by myself…"

"Do, re, mi, yes?" he asked, looking at her carefully, waiting for her to nod nervously. "It doesn't need to be perfect. Not yet. That is what we will be getting to. We're going to try it, Christine."

He gave her the time to adjust the music stand and lay the sheets out. She was nervous. For a girl so shy and private, she was fairly easy to read.

"Ready?" he asked when she finally stopped fiddling with the stand and the music. She gave half a nod and he began to play.

They made it through two phrases before he stopped her.

"You are certain you can read music?" he asked, looking at the piano and not turning his head to look at her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Again."

She made it no further before he stopped her again in frustration, actually shifting on the piano bench so that he could look at her.

"Can you or can you not read music? If you can't then tell me now and I can teach you but don't waste my time, Christine."

"I can!" she huffed. "I swear I can, I'm sorry!"

Her face was beet red and he sighed. "Then why are you three notes off?"

She fidgeted, pulling on the sleeve of the sweatshirt that practically hung on her. "I can't see it," she admitted in a whisper.

"... then adjust the stand," he said flatly. "That is why it moves. Do what you need to to see it, Christine."

He began to play again and this time they moved past the first phrase, past the first sheet. When he glanced at her it was to find her holding the sheets of music in her hand, hardly an inch from her face. He let her get through the entire piece.

"That was much better," he encouraged her quietly. "How long has your vision been like that?"

She shrugged her shoulders, setting the music back on the stand.

"Have you ever had glasses?"

"I lost them," she admitted, twisting her sleeve between her thumb and forefinger. "When dad died, it all… they were kinda broken anyway and they just never got replaced. I've been trying to save up."

He pressed his thin lips together as he thought. "Can you see anything?"

She huffed, crossing her arms. "It's isn't  _that_  bad. I can see… I see, like, shapes and colors and I can  _see_  I just, when things get further away they're kinda blurry. I can see, mostly… I think."

"We will make do with what we have for now. I'd like to try it again, Christine. Exactly the same as you just did."

* * *

If Erik were to be completely honest, he wasn't much more socially adept than she was. It wasn't that he  _couldn't_ be social and make small talk, it was simply that he had never had much interest in it. He still didn't have much interest in it.

It was necessary.

That was what he decided. If he wanted to loosen her up, to get her to relax and open up to him even a little bit, he would have to put forth some small effort of his own.

Besides, even in some of that innocuous and pointless chatter he supposed he could find  _something_  useful.

"When is your birthday?" he hadn't expected to feel nervous about starting a conversation with her when he closed the car door. She looked at him strangely and he shrugged one shoulder as he backed out of the parking spot. "You've told me it's in a month and a half but you haven't actually told me the date."

"December fifth," she answered, staring out of her window.

He cleared his throat and turned the radio up just the slightest bit. "And what will you do to celebrate it?"

Her arms crossed again. If it was possible, she almost seemed to close herself off even more when they were forced into the small car together. "Mrs V will probably give me a cupcake but aside from that…" she shrugged. "I haven't celebrated my birthday in a real long time, not really. I don't mind."

He was silent for a long moment, his mind turning. "What will you do tonight, Christine?"

She bit her lip and glanced toward him. He could almost see her thinking.

"It isn't a trick question," he said eventually. "I have no homework for you."

"I'll probably… I'll help Mrs V with the babies. And I'll probably practice a little bit, at least until Mr V gets home," she sighed and her head fell back against the headrest as she shrugged. "I'll do some homework and help the younger girls get read for bed. I don't know."

"The younger ones," he murmured as he finally pulled into her driveway. "How many children are in the house, Christine?"

"Five…" she answered, her hand already on the handle of the door. She paused for a moment. "I mean, six if you count me. Only two of them are really little though. The rest of us are all in school."

"It must be busy."

"... sometimes," she answered eventually. "Busy is - it's good for me, I think."

Her hand had slid away from the handle of the door and he felt a strange sense of self-satisfaction with the realization. "Will you come back to me tomorrow, Christine?" he asked softly.

"What?" she asked, almost seeming nervous. "Of course I - unless you don't -"

"I'm glad," he said, cutting her question off. "You're doing very well so far. I've certainly enjoyed our time together. Have you?"

"... Yeah," she murmured eventually. "I really, I appreciate you doing all this for me. It's -"

"Nothing, Christine," he said with a gentle smile. "If you keep putting the work in then you've already repaid me. Get some rest tonight."

The most glorious thing happened as she got out of the car and dug her new backpack out of the backseat.

She paused, standing in the open doorway. "Erik?"

Her voice was shy and nervous. It was the first time he had ever heard his name in her voice. "Yes?" he encouraged, looking over the seat and through the open backdoor at her.

"... thank you. Again. For the backpack," she said, shifting awkwardly. "It was really nice and you didn't have to do it. I just… thank you."

"You're welcome, Christine," he answered softly. "Don't worry about it any more, hm? Just be ready to work tomorrow."

"Right," she sighed, closing the door.

He sat there, just as he always did when he dropped her off, and watched until she disappeared into the house. He wasn't sure  _why_  he did it. He could certainly justify driving her home with the thought that something could happen to her if he let her find her own way but even he had to admit that the chances of something happening between his car door and the front door of the house were slim to none.

Anyway, she didn't seem to mind it too much. He watched her glance over her shoulder like she needed to reassure herself that he was still there before she disappeared through the door.

_Erik_. He had heard her say his name for the first time and how he ached to hear it again.

He sat there for longer than he had intended to. He watched her peek out from behind a curtain in the front window and that was what prompted him to shift the car into reverse and aim himself toward his own home.

For the first time in a long while, Erik ached to put the music suddenly playing in his head down on paper. He reached down and turned the radio off completely.

Erik wasn't sure that he would be able to pinpoint when exactly it had happened, but he knew that he was utterly lost.

He wasn't sure it was a good thing.


	6. Chapter 6

Christine wasn't sure what she thought about him. She wanted to say that he was _nice_ but she didn't think that was quite right. He wasn't nice and he wasn't mean, he just… was. Just like she was. There was something almost comforting about it.

He was consistent. He was there. That was, perhaps, what comforted Christine the most. He was there every single day after school and he wasn't paid to be. He chose to be. He _wanted_ to spend time with her. Christine hadn't really had anyone that _wanted_ to spend their time with her since her dad died.

Erik still made her stand against the wall at the beginning of every lesson. He still laid his hand over her stomach while she breathed. It wasn't as unsettling anymore. She wasn't sure if it should be; if anything, she expected it. His cold and clinical touch was _almost_ welcome.

He still asked her questions when he drove her home. He almost seemed determined to keep a conversation with her and she let him. That was comforting too. She wasn't sure _why_ he seemed interested in her and her thoughts but he did. He listened to her. He wanted her to talk and so she did. Some days she didn't even want to get out of his car; things were so calm when she was shut away with him. There were no screaming babies, there was no homework, no yelling Mr V. There was just music and the man that actually listened to her. Even though she wasn't completely sure that she should, she felt safe with him. He actually seemed to care.

The first snow brought along Christine's first illness. Winter was always hard on her and no one had really been able to figure out why. Mrs Valerius said that she must have some sort of vitamin deficiency but blood tests were expensive. It wouldn't surprise Christine much. Her eyes were broken, she already had asthma and it wasn't too hard to believe that her own body didn't want her much either.

She felt absolutely disgusting. She could hear the wheeze in her heavy chest when she tried to breathe; when she coughed she had to make sure she had tissues nearby. Even her eyes were red. When she woke up that Tuesday morning she wanted to do nothing more than roll over and fall back asleep. She almost did when she was hit by the thought that Erik would have no idea why she didn't come to their lesson. She had no idea how to get a hold of him outside of that small practice room; truth be told, even feeling like death warmed over, the thought of giving up those few hours of peace was a difficult one.

It only took one look from Mrs V to assure her that she looked just about as bad as she felt. "Go back to bed."

Christine forced herself to smile. "I'm fine, I swear," she argued.

After at least five reassurances, Mrs V let her get on the bus.

By the time she made it to that small practice room she thought she might collapse. The door was already heavy; it was practically immovable that day. She still forced it open and slid through the gap.

Erik took one look at her and shook his head. "Why are you here?"

"To sing," she answered, her voice gruff from the constant cough that she just couldn't seem to get to stop.

"You're sick."

Christine leaned against the wall. Her head was spinning and she thought she might honestly fall over if she wasn't careful. "I'm okay. I swear."

His fingers were so cold they almost burned when he touched her forehead. "You're in no condition to sing," he said, pulling his hand away from her. "You're running a fever. You shouldn't have even come to school."

"Please," she whispered. She wasn't really sure why she was begging him; even talking took too much effort. If she even managed to sing she knew that he would just get frustrated with her.

She felt his hands as he reached around her and slid the backpack off of her shoulders. She let him do it.

"Come with me, Christine," he said softly.

When she blinked her eyes open he had her backpack over his own shoulder and his briefcase in his hand. He was holding the door open and she wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't want to go home already." She sounded childish even to herself.

"I'm not taking you home," he answered. "Not yet. Just come with me."

Even though she thought that maybe she shouldn't, she followed him. She was absolutely exhausted and his car was warm and comfortable. He had shown her how to set the seat warmers the week before and she was fascinated by them.

She watched everything blur together outside of her window, letting her head lean against the cool glass. "Where are we going?" she finally mumbled. She knew for a fact that he wasn't taking her home; he had turned the wrong way out of the parking lot and she didn't recognize much of anything they were passing.

"You are in no state to sing," his soothing voice came from the driver's seat. She relaxed with it. There was something about the tone his voice would slip into that could change her mood in an instant. "I will give you music, Christine. But I will not allow you to sit on the dirty floor of that practice room. That's probably how you got sick in the first place… are you allergic to cats?"

Somewhere along the way Christine had gotten used to the way his thoughts meandered. She couldn't ever really _follow_ them. She usually had no idea how he arrived at his questions. But she was used to it and she didn't think much of it at all. "Probably," she huffed, feeling utterly miserable. "I've never really been around one. I don't know."

"I hope that you aren't," he murmured, glancing over at her. "Do you have a scarf, Christine?"

She barely shook her head but he seemed to see it anyway.

"We will have to get you one," he said quietly. "Winter is well on its way."

"I hate winter," she huffed. The first snow had already begun to melt and she stared at the ugly muddy-brown colors that passed by outside of her window. The grass was already a sickly yellow.

"Why?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "The sun goes away and the colors are ugly… I always get real sick. I just hate it."

He only hummed in acknowledgement as they pulled up to a large gate. She watched him roll the window down and type a short code into the electronic box.

The gate started to slide open and he pulled through it. "Where are we?" she asked, watching the gate close behind them through the back window. She wasn't sure she felt _trapped_ but there was something twisting in her stomach that wasn't illness and she had the distinct feeling that she was somewhere that she just plain shouldn't be. She tried to ignore it; she had felt the exact same thing when she was with him before and everything had turned out fine so far.

"I told you that I will give you music," he answered noncommittally. He pulled the car up in front of a garage door and put it in park. "There is nothing for you to worry about, Christine. I promise."

This time he was the one that got out and she was the one that watched him. He made his way around to her door and opened it.

The only thing Christine could really register in her fevered haze was the fact that the house was big, overwhelmingly big. There were two different garage doors and the front door he led her to on the covered front porch was large dark wood.

If she was overwhelmed by the outside, the inside was too much. The ceilings were high, a large chandelier hung in the entryway, her steps echoed on the floor. It was _too_ much.

"It's like something out of a movie," she said eventually, staring up at the chandelier that hung over her head.

His hand on the small of her back made her jump. He had _never_ touched her like that. Something about it was so much more intimate than when he checked her breathing or when he corrected her posture; this was _different_ and she couldn't really figure out why.

"Let me show you my music room, Christine." His voice was warm and gentle and calming and she let him lead her through the house. She let him keep his hand there. "I will play you something I've written… I have many pieces that have not been to a publisher. Many that never will be. Do you have any allergies to honey?"

"No…" she answered softly, looking up at the ceilings and down at the fancy wooden floors.

"We will get you comfortable and I will make you some tea," he continued. He always talked endlessly when she was nervous. It was almost like he could sense it. "It will help."

Christine wasn't sure how she ended up on the overstuffed leather couch. The blanket he had wrapped around her shoulders was softer than anything she owned and she pulled it tight, looking around the room from her perch. The black piano was large; she was pretty sure it was expensive even though she wasn't sure what brand it was. There were various instruments that hung from hooks lined along the wall. If it were anyone else she would wonder if they honestly knew how to play them all; it wasn't a question in her head. For some reason she was sure he did. Anything less would have surprised her more.

When he came back there was something _different_ about him. It took her a few minutes to figure out what exactly it was. It was his eyes, she decided. It was like in the five minutes he had left her alone their color had changed completely. She thought her fever must be pretty bad. That was the only thing she _could_ think as she took the steaming mug of tea that he offered her

"If I hear that you are at school tomorrow we will not have another lesson for a month."

Christine blinked at his threat. "I'm sorry," she said eventually. "I didn't have any way to-"

"Your health is a very important part of what we are doing," he continued as though he hadn't even heard her. "If you don't take care of yourself then we might as well give up now."

She wanted to argue with him. She was tempted to defend herself. Something told her that was the wrong thing to do. Instead she bit her tongue. "I'm sorry," she said again.

He nodded slowly at that, almost like he was saying that he forgave her for the perceived disobedience. "I will give you a phone number when I drop you off," he murmured. "You will always be able to reach me at it. You will not go to school like this again."

"... I don't have a phone," she offered quietly.

"There is no phone in the house? That's simply unsafe." To his credit, he honestly did sound concerned about the idea instead of irritated.

Christine sipped at the hot tea he had handed to her and sank further into the blanket. "We have a house phone."

"Ah," he said. "Then you have no reason not to call if you will be out sick. I ask very little, Christine. You have to take care of yourself."

She nodded and he seemed satisfied enough with that. Erik had this way about him that always kept her on her toes; he was very difficult to read. It was hard to anticipate his next move because his whims seemed to change just as quickly as his thoughts did; Christine thought he must have been the kind of person that hung up a phone without saying goodbye, like those people on tv did.

When he made his way to the piano and began to play, though, all of her suspicion and nervousness melted away without any conscious thought. She wasn't even sure that she would be able to explain the music, or describe it. It wrapped around her, it sank beneath her skin and it comforted her. She had never heard music like his before - it would concern her, later, but not now. Now the only way she could describe it as was enthralling.

Christine would never know when exactly she had fallen asleep - at some point after she slid the tea cup onto the wooden coffee table. The only reason she even knew she had was that there was none spilled on herself.

The only reason she had known she had fallen asleep at all was because he had to wake her up.

"It's getting late," his warm voice murmured. His fingers were a bit too cold against her cheek but she felt no urge to push him away. Instead she sighed as he tucked her hair behind her ear. "I have to take you home, sweetheart."

"Can't I stay?" she mumbled. It wasn't really a conscious thought - the words just came out.

He hummed in that warm way he did when he was simply acknowledging that he had heard her. "Not tonight, Christine. Come on. You need to get to bed."

The conversation was sparse on the drive home; Erik seemed to be lost in his own thought and she was simply trying to stay awake, pillowing her temple against the cold glass and hoping the chill would be enough to keep her conscious. The thought of actually getting out of his car and walking up the stairs in the little house was even too much.

"I do not want to see you again until next Tuesday," he said eventually, breaking the silence. "A week should be enough. If you do not feel better in two days I want you to see a doctor. If your Mrs V says she can not afford it you will call me."

"Okay," she mumbled, recognizing that the car was in park and they were sitting in her driveway.

He reached over her lap and opened the glovebox, finding a business card and a pen. He turned it over to the blank side and jotted nine digits of a phone number on the back of it. "Can you read this?" he asked, handing the card to her.

She had to hold it close but she could make out the numbers and she nodded.

"You will reach me directly at that number," he said. "Rest, Christine. If your Mrs V will not allow that, either, then call me."

"Okay," she said again, opening the door of the car and shivering.

When she glanced over at him one last time before she climbed out of the car she wondered if she was honestly crazy.

His eyes were still yellow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for… mildly innocuous drugging, if it can ever be called that.

Erik couldn't figure her out. Maybe it was himself that he really struggled with.

There was nothing particularly unique about her. That was what he tried to tell himself, at least. Christine was a fairly plain girl. Her skin was pale, her eyes were dull, her voice was decent but it was honestly nothing impressive to an untrained ear.

He still couldn't get her out of his head.

Erik was falling completely for a high school girl and he would have laughed at himself if it wasn't such a depressing truth.

Sometimes he wondered if it was _her_ or if it was simply because she was honestly the first person he allowed himself to be close to in any sort of emotional way. Still, she seemed out of place among her peers. He would say she seemed _mature_ for her age if it wasn't such a common excuse among miscreants like himself. Still, she seemed to be. Maybe she was simply shy and that was why it came across that way - he would have to begrudgingly admit that she wasn't particularly mature. She simply hid it better than other girls her age.

He knew it was happening. The first time it was a conscious thought was when she fell asleep in his music room. He had been tempted to straighten the blanket and simply allow her to pass the night there; the only thing that kept him from it was the thought of her foster family. They didn't seem attentive but he had to imagine if she was missing overnight someone would surely notice. After allowing her into his life, into his house, it felt strangely lonely without her.

Erik had never struggled with loneliness. _She_ brought it into his life. Sometimes he thought he might just be going through some sort of midlife crisis - most seemed to and while he was _different_ he wasn't completely inhuman.

Christine was a good little student. She improved rather quickly; she loved to sing. Maybe that was what drew him to her so magnetically. He saw bits of himself there. For all of her utter misery in daily life, she clung to the music and she genuinely seemed happy to disappear into it.

He tried, for an embarrassingly short while, to draw a thick line in the sand. As she improved he attempted to lessen their lessons; three a week instead of five, two hours each. No more than two hours. It lasted approximately two weeks before he insisted that they needed to pick back up. He couldn't remember what weakness in her voice he chose to justify it.

He did, however, remember the excuse he used to justify moving the lessons away from the school and into his home. The instruments were _dismally_ maintained and he was tired of having to tune the piano once a week. Erik was a liar. He was a good one; he liked to pepper his lies with a kernel of truth. That one was a complete lie. He hadn't had to tune the piano in over a month. Still, she trusted him and there was absolutely no argument from her.

By the time Christine's sixteenth birthday rolled around the sickening l-word was buzzing through his head incessantly and she had three songs in her repertoire that he would be fairly confident allowing her to sing in public.

"Today we will not have a lesson," he said on that Thursday when she met him in the little practice room. It was a routine. Christine thrived in routine; they met in the familiar and neutral practice room before he took her to his house.

She clutched the straps of her backpack tightly. On that particular day her hair was pulled back into a fairly tamed ponytail; Erik noticed all of those small things. She hardly needed to speak. He knew exactly what was coming before her lips parted. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Yes," he answered curtly. "You've forgotten your own birthday; did your Mrs V remember your cupcake?"

Christine had grown restless and agitated as midterms edged closer. Erik avoided the subject and did his best to distract her from them; the truth was that he was fairly certain that she would fail too. He had seen the poor marks on her homework when he was busy tuning the piano or when he left her to get a drink and she pulled it out in her few minutes of downtime. She hadn't mentioned it to him and so he kept the knowledge to himself. He was sure it was his fault to a certain extent; he had offered her a distraction from her studies and she latched on gladly. He thought maybe he should feel bad about it but the truth was he never quite felt guilty; his mind was far too busy creating ways to twist her failure to his benefit.

"She's been busy," Christine answered, shifting awkwardly and playing with the straps on her backpack. "Her arthritis is real bad again. Really, it's okay. I don't need a cupcake and I'd kinda rather… forget. Can we please just have a lesson?"

He could empathize with her to a certain extent; he had never much enjoyed his own birthday either. Truth be told he wasn't even sure when it actually was anymore. He could dig through the litany of identification cards he had but he hadn't the slightest clue which ones were based in reality and which had been whimsical choices anymore. It was sometime in the hot summer months, he was pretty sure of that. The only thing he could concretely remember about his youthful birthdays was the taste of a stale sugar cookie and the beads of relentless sweat in the unairconditioned little cabin. He remembered more about the cabin than he did about his mother or his actual childhood; he wasn't quite sure if that was sad or not. Sometimes he wondered if the wide black gaps in his memory were more of a blessing than a curse.

"It is your sixteenth birthday and I will not allow you to just _forget about it_ ," he said. Nor would he allow the gift he had so carefully and painstakingly wrapped go forgotten. "It will be simple, Christine. I promise. A quiet dinner, that's all. You cannot simply ignore it."

Her grip on the backpack was loosening. It was a sure sign that he had won. "With you?" she asked.

She wouldn't look at him and he wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to take from that. "Well I certainly can't count on anyone else to be sure you celebrate, can I? Yes with me, Christine."

"I guess… it wouldn't be so bad," she sighed. "Can we please still sing?"

"Of course, if you still feel up to it later," he answered, wrapping his own scarf around her throat. He could have bought her a scarf. He _should_ have. The truth was that he enjoyed letting her wear his. There was something about it, something satisfying that he couldn't quite put his finger on. She kept bringing it to him and he kept giving it right back; it was an odd kind of game but not one that he particularly minded. Besides, so long as she had something of his she would feel obligated to come back. "It is _your_ birthday, after all. Let me take this," he said, tugging on the handle of her backpack.

She sighed and let him slip the backpack of off her.

"Heavy again," he pointed out, weighing the bag in his hand. "Your posture is going to suffer."

She wrapped her arms over her chest. Without the backpack she had nothing to huddle into and Erik could practically see her try to shrink herself. "I have a lot to study," she mumbled.

He hummed in acknowledgement and made no further comment, simply offering her his arm.

Christine always hesitated. Every single time. She never tried to pull away from his touch but offering her the choice, she hesitated. Eventually, as she always did, she would relent and slip her hand into the crook of his arm. Sometimes he thought that she was too well-mannered for her own good.

Erik had found, over time, that if he let silence sit for long enough Christine would inevitably break it with some nervous chatter. Sometimes her attempts to fill the silence were more interesting than the answers to any questions he might have asked. And, as he expected, about five minutes into the short twenty minute drive she did just that.

"My dad kept me out of school on the last birthday I had with him," she said softly, staring out of the window. "We didn't have much money then either but I didn't know. He was real good at hiding it. He took me up to this little park in our neighborhood. It was gross. I think he must've spent the whole day before picking up needles, I remember I found some."

"He cared for you very much." Erik knew that she still grieved. It was obvious to anyone that spent more than five minutes with her. He just wasn't really sure what to _do_ with the knowledge. He couldn't relate to it in any meaningful way. He had never lost anyone that he actually cared about and maybe that was just because he could count the number of people he had allowed himself to care about on one hand. Her and her alone. He had _associations_ , of course, but not a single one whose death he could honestly say he would regard with anything more than mild annoyance.

"Yeah," she sighed, shifting in the seat and glancing at him. "It gets a little harder to remember him every day. It just… hurts."

"That was the last birthday you actually celebrated." It was a guess but Erik was fairly sure that it was a good one.

"Yeah," she answered, falling back against the seat. "Have you lost a parent?"

Erik shifted his hands nervously on the steering wheel. It wasn't that he had a problem giving her bits of truth; it was finding where exactly to draw that line. "I never knew my father," he offered eventually. "I wasn't close with my mother and I haven't spoken to her since I left home. I have no idea what's become of her."

"That's awful," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

He wasn't but he also wasn't about to tell her that. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him and he offered half a nod. "It's okay, Christine. Thank you."

An awkward silence settled between them and he felt no inclination to break it. He always got nervous when she actually asked him questions. He wasn't sure why; it was inevitable that she would discover some of his secrets eventually. Perhaps it was because he was a bit of a control freak; he could admit that. She would _have_ to discover at least a few things about him. He just wanted it to be on his terms.

The silence stayed unbroken until he pulled into the parking lot of the overly-cheerful little diner and put the car in park. It was nothing honestly special but it was _something_ and it was unpopular enough that they would have some small privacy.

"You aren't gonna, like, make them sing to me, are you?" she asked quietly.

He actually chuckled at that. "That would be just as painful for me as it would be for you. I promise no one needs to know it's your birthday aside from us."

"Thank God," she sighed, clicking her seatbelt off.

She was a quiet, good-mannered girl. She was good at pleases and thank yous. Despite the fact that he told her that she was free to order anything at all she ended up with a cheap plate of chicken tenders, french fries and nothing more than plain water. She was withdrawn and quiet and when the check came she drew even more into herself.

She toyed with the edge of her napkin nervously and watched him slide a card into the little bill book out of the corner of her eye.

"It's real nice of you to do this for me," she mumbled after the too-nice waitress retrieved the check. "You don't have to and… it's just real nice of you. Thank you."

He wanted to tell her that it was absolutely nothing. He wanted to tell her that it was utterly selfish and that he would take her out to eat every night if it meant he could squeeze just another few minutes of her company out, even if it was silent. "You're welcome," he said instead.

Christine seemed to carry a burden of undeserved guilt. She never asked for anything and most of the time, if something was offered, she would refuse to take it. Erik thought maybe that, too, drew him to her a bit. She was intriguing. She was everything he had never been and would never be. She was his opposite in just about every way that mattered.

She sang. Of course she sang. It was her only request for her birthday and he would never deny her the option of music. There were very few things that he could think of that he _would_ willingly and knowingly deny her. And when she finally exhausted herself he managed to get her to settle into the now-familiar leather couch in the music room.

He had debated with himself over getting her a gift in the weeks leading up to her birthday. When it finally approached he decided that he _needed_ to get her a gift. Once that was decided, he toed back and forth on what exactly to get her. Something _useful_ , something she didn't have. Christine didn't seem to enjoy frills and unnecessary trinkets.

She eyed him suspiciously when he brought the small wrapped box to her.

"You didn't have to get me a gift," she argued. Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether her quiet words were anger or shyness; this was one of those times.

He didn't say anything and she steadfastly refused to take it from him. Eventually he had to set it gently in her lap to get her to take it. "You need it," he justified himself. "Just open it, Christine."

Eventually she relented, peeling the paper back carefully. He almost had to laugh - the way that she unwrapped it was methodical and he could nearly smooth the paper out and reuse it. Once it was opened she stared at the small electronics box. She slowly removed the lid and stared blankly at the little grey flip phone inside.

"It's just as much for me as it is for you," he said honestly, watching her as she stared at it silently. "I don't like you living in that neighborhood with such little communication. And you see, now you can call your Mrs V anytime you need to." It was also the comfort of knowing that he could easily reach her. He thought that bit might be best kept to himself.

"I can't afford it," she mumbled, finally looking up at him. "It's every month and I - Mrs V - that's why I don't have one. 'Cause we can't afford it."

"Consider it paid," he answered. And it was. He had toyed with the idea of getting her a smartphone. He had settled on the older model when he realized that she would be far more likely to accept it; and in truth, he wasn't sure that he wanted her to have a smartphone. She didn't seem the type of girl that was particularly interested in social media and he was glad for that. It was far too much to attempt to monitor.

She bit her lip but eventually she pulled the phone out of its box and turned it over in her hand. "Thank you," she whispered again. He could see the confusion in her eyes but he did his best to ignore it, excusing himself with the promise of making tea.

While the kettle boiled he made his way into the bathroom. His contacts were irritating and he needed to take them out. She hadn't made a single comment on it the last time he had done it; eventually she would, he was sure of that. She wasn't a stupid girl - he had no doubt that she had noticed. Finite detail was easy enough for her blurred vision to miss but he had no reason to believe that she was colorblind.

It was a whim and he swore it was. If he had never made his way into the bathroom that night the events that followed never would have happened. If his eyes hadn't been irritated he wouldn't have gone into the bathroom. If he hadn't gone into the bathroom he wouldn't have given a thought to the mild sedative that sat in a glass bottle beside the contact solution in the medicine cabinet.

The first time that she had fallen asleep had been a fluke - the poor girl was sick and exhausted. She had pushed herself too hard in her determination to keep up with her lessons.

She was still exhausted, he told himself. She had been tense and stressed over school - not enough to put her to sleep, only enough to relax her. That was what he told himself as he added three carefully measured drops to her tea. It took nearly a tablespoon to ease him into relaxation these days. He was fully aware that it could mostly be attributed to his ever-rising tolerance. Just a few drops, just enough to take the edge off of her. He stirred in an extra half-spoon of honey to mask any hint of flavor.

Christine took the steaming mug from him without a question. In her attempt to avoid his eyes she sipped at it steadily.

He watched as the tension slowly but steadily slipped from her. She relaxed into the leather sofa and by the time her cup was empty her eyelids were drooping and she was unabashedly staring at him.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked softly.

"Why're you doing all this for me?" she mumbled.

He let himself crouch down near to her until their eyes were level. "You are my student," he said carefully. "My investment. I take care of the things that are mine."

She blinked and stared straight into his eyes. He watched as a small crease formed between her brows.

"What is it?" he asked, knowing exactly what it was that caused the change in her.

Christine sat just a bit straighter, leaning forward as she squinted just the tiniest bit. The absolute and utter concentration was far too fascinating to watch to be concerned about what she would discover in her scrutiny. "Your eyes…"

He hummed, staying perfectly still as she leaned just a bit closer to him. "I wear contacts."

"Those are contacts?" she asked, frowning.

"No," he answered honestly. "These are… natural."

When she leaned even closer he didn't honestly mind. It was her fingertips on his cheek that he hadn't been expecting. She withdrew her fingers almost immediately with a surprised "Oh!"

There were only so many explanations he could offer for the rubbery texture she had felt. He hadn't been _quite_ ready to show her this much but he recovered himself quickly. "Give me your hand," he said, holding his own out to her.

She chewed the inside of her lip for a minute before she finally slid her soft, warm hand into his.

He drew the tips of her fingers along his cheek, tracing them back until he could press her fingertips against the seam of the mask. If he was honest, it would be a relief to be able to part with it. The frequent application of adhesive had been taking its toll; his skin was red, raw and irritated beneath it. On the weekends he hadn't even been wearing the casual white mask he usually replaced it with. "There are many things about me that you don't know," he said slowly, tracing her fingers down his jaw and enjoying the bit of skin-to-skin contact at the edge of it. "It's a mask, Christine. I have a few. I trust you. That is why I'm telling you. I can trust you, right?"

She seemed absolutely entranced, staring at their hands against his cheek.

"Christine." He waited for her eyes to focus back in on his. "I can trust you, can't I?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I - of course."

"Of course I can," he said softly, pulling her hand away from his cheek and hesitating just a moment before he let it go. "You're exhausted," he pointed out slowly. "I should take you home."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: So remember when I told some of you that once it actually started to turn it would come pretty quickly? … yeah. Warning for Dubcon. Extremely dubious. So dubious that it kinda dips its toes into noncon. I've warned you.**

The first time he showed her his normal mask, Christine was taken aback.

She had half thought that the evening of her birthday had been a dream. It was foggy and muddy and it was the most logical explanation she could think of for the things he had said to her. He hadn't mentioned anything about masks to her after the odd moment, not even when he had to wake her up after she fell asleep in his car on the way home.

Everything was back to normal the next day. Well, as normal as things ever were when she was with him. Christine had to admit that he had always been kinda weird, even without the newfound knowledge that she only partly believed. She thought maybe it was just because he _was_ so artistic. Artists were known for being a little off. It was normal enough, then, and he seemed _almost_ cheerful.

He was _so_ cheerful that he didn't even make any snide comments about the weight of her backpack when he took it from her. He always made some sort of comment or another to make sure she knew he was displeased but this time there was nothing.

It was quiet on the drive to his house, but it wasn't an unpleasant kind of quiet. Christine couldn't feel any tension from him. It was a rare kind of comfortable quiet and, even though usually they managed to find something to talk about and it was a little different, it didn't make her nervous. If anything she was kind of happy about it. When he was in a good mood their lessons were usually much better. He could be pretty harsh when he was irritated.

For the first time ever, he left her alone in the entryway of his house with a simple comment that she knew the way to the music room and a promise that he would meet her there shortly.

Christine would be lying if she said she didn't feel the temptation to snoop. He had never given her that much freedom in his home before and she really _was_ curious about him. She couldn't help it.

When she was sure he had actually left her alone she decided that it wouldn't be _so_ bad. She could just _glance_ at a few things on her way.

The first door she tried was locked. She tried it twice, frowning. She wasn't sure what kind of things he would need to lock away when he seemed to live completely alone.

The second door opened and she found nothing more than a normal bathroom. The medicine cabinet was empty aside from a single bottle of ibuprofen and so were the first two drawers she had bothered to open in the cabinet. It was terribly disappointing to say the least.

The third door was locked, just like the first, and she gave up in frustration, deciding that it was a sign that she should leave it alone. Instead she wandered into the music room and made her way to the bookshelf, looking over his selection of songbooks.

Some were his work but most were not. She enjoyed picking through it when he left her alone and she had even picked a piece or two to sing from the shelves - he hadn't seemed upset in the slightest that she looked through it so she thought that must be allowed, at least.

"You are not ready for another piece," he said from halfway across the room, making her jump and nearly drop the book she was looking through. "If you find one, perhaps we will consider it for later."

"I was just -" she glanced over at him and froze. His eyes were that sickly yellow color that she had blamed on exhaustion and fever when she had seen it before. That wasn't quite as upsetting as the mask he wore. It was white - too white - pristine and blank. It covered him from his forehead to just under his nose, leaving thin and dry lips exposed. The bit of skin that she _could_ see almost looked ashen, a strange color that she couldn't quite place. She wanted to call it yellow but it was almost gray. "... just looking," she whispered, trying her best to shake herself out of her surprise.

He tilted his head slightly and she shivered. "I apologize," he said eventually. "I'm aware that it can be… unsettling. It's far more comfortable, though."

Unsettling. She wasn't sure that was a strong enough word for it. She wasn't sure _why_ it bothered her so much. He definitely hadn't lied to her. Suddenly she thought maybe it was a good thing the doors she tried were locked. "It's okay," she forced out. "I just - it surprised me, that's all."

"... you thought I was lying," he said slowly, his words and voice eerily calm. "I understand. It's quite uncomfortable but if it will ease you, I will put the other back on and -"

"No!" she said quickly, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. She wasn't sure why she felt as bad as she did about the way she stared at him - he had to know that it would surprise her. He had to. "It's fine, Erik, really. I was just surprised. It doesn't - doesn't bother me, I swear."

"You are a terrible liar," he said gently. She watched his thin lips draw into a tense smile. "A sweet girl, though. Perhaps if we sing you will forget about it, hm?"

* * *

Christine spent every spare moment she had with her face nearly _in_ a book. Her grades were slipping and she would admit that it was her fault. Most of her school days now were spent daydreaming instead of attempting to follow along and after her lessons, especially the good ones where Erik filled her head with praise, she was too elated to honestly focus on anything. Her life in general was clouded by foggy dreams and she was neglecting nearly everything outside of her lessons and the sleep that Erik made sure to remind her was so important.

Erik. It didn't feel so weird to say his name anymore. He was Erik and just Erik. As the weeks wore on she grew more used to the blank white mask. It hadn't changed anything at all - he was still just as dry, sarcastic, kind and harsh as he had been with the face she thought was his.

The week of her finals she hardly slept at all, partially due to nerves and partially due to the fact that she felt like she wouldn't ever be able to study hard enough. Erik had reminded her that she needed to take care of herself. Mrs V had flipped off the dining room light on her and sent her to bed, where she huddled under her covers with a flashlight to try not to disturb the other girls' sleep.

When she got her results she wasn't sure if she was devastated or embarrassed. Maybe both. She barely passed history and English was her only decent score - even that was a high C.

She begged Mr Gondell to let her retake it or at least do some make-up work but he absolutely refused, insisting that if she paid attention she would've done better and that she could learn something from it.

The only person she wanted to talk to about it was Erik and the thought wasn't as disturbing as it had been in the past. Of course she did. He was her confidant. She told him everything and sometimes he even had solutions for her but every time she thought about it, every time she nearly brought it up, she was too embarrassed to admit it out loud. Instead she pushed it down, promising herself that she would study more. It wasn't honestly too late to turn it around - there were three more semesters and if she tried really, _really_ hard she could still pass the year.

Then she failed the next math test and she broke.

* * *

"Breathe, Christine," Erik commanded from the edge of the piano bench. He had stopped playing entirely by then, far too focused on snapping at her every few seconds.

"Maybe if I had some proper accompaniment I could!" she snapped back, her frustration bubbling over. It wasn't fair, she knew that. It wasn't his fault that her mind was so far away.

He seemed just as surprised by her outburst as she was. He stared at her silently for a long moment. It was unnerving - his yellow eyes watching, analyzing, calculating. He always seemed so cold. It was an incredibly uncomfortable thing to be stared at by him. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" she huffed. She was in no mood for his cryptic questions and games. She was utterly exhausted.

"Your mind."

That was all it took to break her. She collapsed in on herself; she practically melted. She had pushed it down for far too long to stop the way it bubbled to the surface. "I failed," her voice cracked and for the first time in her life she wasn't embarrassed by it.

He didn't move. "What did you fail?"

"My m-midterm, geometry," she sniffled. "I failed and Mr - Mr Gondell won't let me retake it. I'm so stupid and now - now I might get held back because I'm not really doing any better in anything else either."

He finally shifted, returning his attention to the piano. One long, thin finger traced over the edge of the pristine ivory keys. "Then drop out," he said simply.

"I can't just…" she trailed off, sinking down to the floor. "I can't just drop out."

"Why not?" he asked. He was moving now, standing from the piano and kneeling on the floor in front of her. "It is no use getting so worked up over it. You are sixteen, Christine. Look at all of the progress we've already made, how quickly it has come. Imagine what we could accomplish with all that time. We will fill your days with music - you will have no need for a diploma. You trust me, don't you?"

"I trust you," she said with a sniffle. "I tr-trust you but I can't - I can't drop out, Erik. It's my whole future - you c-can't do anything without a diploma."

He leaned forward on his knees. The tips of his fingers brushed slowly over her cheek as he tucked a few wispy curls behind her ear. He was close to her, so close. He had never been so close to her before and she was almost dizzy with it.

"When you open your mouth and sing, no one will remember that you didn't graduate," he said softly. He framed her face between his hands and his chilled thumbs slowly brushed her tears away. "It is only a distraction - a waste of time and an unnecessary stress. You don't need it. You will be so incredibly successful, Christine. And until then, you have me. I have provided so far, haven't I? I have kept all of my promises to you. Just drop out."

His cold fingers against her flushed skin were soothing. His voice was warm and calm, soft, and she let herself relax into him, into his words and his gentle touch. She thought, maybe, that she should resist the pull of him but she was exhausted. "Do you think I'm stupid?" she whispered.

His thin lips pulled into a sad smile, visible just under the edge of his mask. "I would not waste my time on an idiot," he murmured, pulling one of her curls gently between his thumb and forefinger. "I think that you are brilliant. School is simply not where you flourish. I wish that you could see yourself when you sing. You are radiant. Gorgeous. Absolutely brilliant, Christine. Anyone could fall in love with you. The world will, I've no doubt of it."

She wasn't sure what exactly it was that he said that made her heart skip; maybe it was that he called her gorgeous. Maybe it was the implication that he loved her. She couldn't be sure but her heart skipped anyway, her breath caught and she couldn't be sure if it was happiness or terror that made it happen.

He used his hands to tilt her chin up and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her. She couldn't stop him, couldn't manage to push any words past her tight throat.

But he didn't kiss her. He simply pressed his forehead against hers. The mask was cold and uncomfortable but she was frozen in place, frozen by his words, his voice, his touch, his eyes so close to hers.

"You don't have to decide today, sweetheart," he murmured; the warm and rarely affectionate tone of his voice combined with the pet name sent a shiver up her spine. "If you trust me - if you believe in what we are doing - you will make the right choice. It may just take a little time. I know. It will all take a little time."

"... do you love me?" Christine hardly even heard her own question. It was nothing more than a breath and she definitely hadn't actively forced the words out of her mouth.

One long, cool finger hooked under her chin. This time, when he tilted his head, he did kiss her.

She wasn't any more ready for it than she had been a few minutes before.

Christine had never been kissed before. Never. She had no idea what to do - was she supposed to move her lips? Did she want to be kissed by him? She felt warm. She couldn't really decide if she wanted to pull his mask away so that he could actually kiss her or if she wanted to push him away. Instead she fisted her hands in his black button-up shirt.

He must have taken it as encouragement because she felt his hand snake around her, cradling the back of her neck. His cool fingers laced through her hair and, overwhelmed, she shivered.

She was warm, impossibly warm, and every brush of his fingers against her overheated skin sent an involuntary tingle down her spine.

Christine wasn't stupid. She knew exactly what it was. She just wasn't sure what exactly she felt about him being the cause of the sudden warmth between her legs. It was crossing an incredibly delicate line that she hadn't even honestly realized they were close to.

"One day I will take you away." His breath was warm against her cheek. It was honestly one of the only warm things about him. "Far away. Somewhere warm and pretty. We will live and breathe music. You will be happy. You and I - do I love you? Christine… you were made for me just as much as I was for you. God himself brought us together."

His thin lips were grazing against her cheek and she closed her eyes, unable to let go of his shirt, clutching it just a bit tighter as his hand ran down her side. "Take me away…" she repeated breathily.

It must have sounded more like a request than the question that she had been intending because he only hummed warmly and said "I promise."

"Where?" she whispered, trying to keep her train of thought as his finger traced slowly down the column of her throat, hooking in the collar of her bright blue T-shirt.

His hum was warm and gentle and his lips pressed over her pulse, directly against the skin that he had just exposed. "Anywhere you want to go, Christine." Her name sounded like a prayer and she clutched him just a bit tighter. "Somewhere warm and humid. Tropical. Somewhere that can _almost_ be as beautiful as you are. You do so hate winter."

She wasn't sure what the sound she made was when he sucked gently at her throat but whatever it was seemed to encourage him. His hand slid around her back, pulling her closer against his thin chest.

"I will give you everything you need," he promised softly. "All this worry will be so far away - you will forget all about these silly things you cry over now. Close your eyes, Christine. Close your eyes and breathe."

She was pretty sure that she should resist him. She was pretty sure that she should tell him to let go of her, tell him that this was _wrong_. She was pretty sure she should. The thing was, Christine wasn't sure if she _wanted_ to. His touch was soothing, his breath was warm and his promises were pretty, even if she wasn't quite sure whether they were true or not.

She was sure that she shouldn't be obeying him. That she shouldn't have closed her eyes and leaned into him. She was _certain_ that she should have protested when she felt his hand slide down her stomach, when she heard and felt the zipper on her jeans being undone.

Christine couldn't think. She didn't want to. He was humming a soft, soothing melody and even though she _could_ she didn't _want_ to resist it. She didn't _want_ to pull his hand away when it popped open the button on her jeans, when his oddly cold fingers slid into her underwater.

" _Oh_ ," she breathed when his cool finger found that spot that only she had ever touched.

One of his hands was spread open on her back, pulling her close. His lips were pressed against her forehead, the edge of his mask irritating and uncomfortable as the pad of his finger worked gently between her legs.

When his hand slid under her shirt she didn't complain - she didn't argue or try to pull it back down. The tips of his cold fingers ran soothingly up her back and when he found her bra he paused, taking a moment to unhook it and run his refreshingly cold fingers over her tense and irritated muscles.

It took a few attempts to get her voice to work, to even whisper "Erik -"

But he only cut her off with a whispered "Shh." His touch and his lips were gentle and when he tugged at her shirt he didn't have to tell her to lift her arms - she did it all by herself, keeping her eyes pressed closed the whole time.

"Gorgeous, Christine," he murmured warmly, his lips brushing against her temple. She hadn't even realized he was leaning into her until her back met the rug and he was kneeling over her.

There was a knot in her throat. Christine clutched at his bicep as he shifted, rucking her jeans down her legs.

His cold lips were pressing kisses against the flushed skin of her stomach, his fingers still working in that way that was driving her absolutely crazy.

If she opened her eyes she was sure that she would tell him to stop. She didn't want to open her eyes. She wanted to fall into whatever spell he had cast over her; she wanted to believe all of his promises.

He wanted her and she wanted him to.

No one had ever wanted her in any way, let alone like _this_. He did. Erik did. Well established, talented Erik.

She didn't protest when he pulled her underwear away. She didn't clench her thighs together and tell him to stop when she heard a zipper and rustling fabric.

His hands ran down her thighs soothingly, spreading them, down to her knees. He repositioned her slowly and patiently as he continued to hum, until he was cradled between her knees.

There was a vague discomfort when she felt him nudge against her.

Christine gasped when he thrust inside of her. He was rhythmic and slow and she was grateful for that, at least. It let her adjust to the odd feeling. It helped her to move past the initial surprise and that sharp surge of pain. She was glad that he didn't scold her when she fisted the back of his shirt and buried her face against his shoulder.

Instead his cold hand ran up her bare back gently and he cradled the back of her head in his palm, his thumb drawing slow circles just behind her ear as he moved inside of her.

He had stopped humming. She was pretty sure he had because his breath was quick on her overheated skin and his lips were busy moving over whatever bit of her he could manage to reach but somehow, even though she was sure it was just in her head, she still heard him humming.

Erik paused, shifted, and when he began to move again he caught against something that sent a warm shiver straight up her spine.

She moaned - or, she thought she did. It was hard to tell. Her world was spinning and the only thing she was absolutely sure of was that it was his shirt that she clung to.

In that moment after her weak orgasm, as he still moved deep inside of her, she wondered if she would regret it. She wondered if she should have insisted on at least moving into his bed. She couldn't lie to herself enough to believe that anything about it had _actually_ been romantic. Not when she was clutching his shirt, not when she could feel his jeans rubbing uncomfortably against her thighs. Not when they lay on the floor. The only sound she could even hear was their breath.

He gave a few more sharp, hard thrusts and she felt warmth deep inside of her as his breath shuddered.

When he slid out of her, she flinched. She was sore. There was a distinct throbbing in that place he had filled and she couldn't really make sense out of any of it.

Part of her was grateful when he laid on the cold ground beside her and pulled her into his arms. The other part of her wanted to gather her clothes off of the floor, leave and never look back.

Instead she buried her face against his chest and held onto his shirt as though if she only clutched it tight enough it would give her all of the answers she needed.

"You will call Mrs V and tell her that you are staying with a friend tonight," he said softly. "We will not sing anymore. Not today." His long fingers were running through her hair calmly. "I will let you rest. Rest is what you need."

"Erik…" her voice was rough and strained.

"Hm?"

Christine only shook her head. She had no idea what she was supposed to say. She hardly had a grasp on what had just happened. She tried to focus on his heartbeat beneath her ear, the steady and soothing rise and fall of his chest.

He sighed and trailed one finger over her cheek. "I will take care of you, Christine," he said softly. "I promise that I will. I see you. I _want_ you and I will never leave you."

The thing was, Christine couldn't sort out whether his words were a promise or a threat anymore. "… what does this mean for us?" she whispered eventually.

"For us?" he murmured, his fingers pausing in her hair. "I've already told you, sweetheart. I love you. God brought us together; created us _for_ each other. There should be no question. You will realize it too, eventually. You will see us just as I do one day."

She sniffed and pressed close against him. There was something halfway comforting about it; being held by him, the way his fingers trailed over her so gently.

She had never let her mind wander to _this_. Not when she thought about him. And she thought that maybe that's because he _was_ so cold. He was cold and harsh and when he was really impatient he could be downright mean.

Christine had never considered the thought that he might have a warm feeling toward her, not beyond her voice. But here he was, holding her close, stroking her hair, _comforting_ her - and that's what it was, she thought. That's what it _had_ to be because anything else just confused her even more.

"Do you really think I should drop out?" she whispered, daring to let her arm wrap over his thin waist.

His hand was on the back of her neck, rubbing firmly at her tense muscle. "I do. Are you considering it?"

She nodded slowly and he hummed deep in his chest.

"Good," he murmured warmly. "That's very good, Christine. You will be so much happier - we will accomplish so much more if you do. You won't miss it a bit."

"I wouldn't miss Mr Gondell," she mumbled. He only chuckled and she sighed. "Do you really think I can do it? That I'm good enough to not go to school?"

He tucked her hair behind her ear gently. "If I did not I would not suggest it. Come, Christine. I will bring you something warm to wear and if you'd like I will play for you."

He helped her to sit up and then he left her there, alone, naked on the rug. She had considered redressing herself before he came back but she shifted and felt a warm dribble down her thigh and she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do about it other than sit still and clench her legs together as tightly as she could.

When he came back it was with pajamas and a robe hanging from one hand and a damp washcloth in the other.

He wordlessly knelt on the floor in front of her and set the clothing aside. She was mortified, absolutely horrified, when he pulled her legs open and ran the lukewarm washcloth over the stickiness she felt there.

"It's all perfectly natural," he offered after a moment, apparently sensing her embarrassment. He looked up at her carefully, seemingly searching her eyes for something. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about. You are beautiful, Christine."

She shivered and looked away from him. She wasn't sure what she felt other than uncomfortable. She was too aware of how cold his fingers were on her skin, too aware of his eyes on her and how naked she was, even with her arms wrapped around herself.

When he started to help her get dressed she didn't resist him. She let him slide her underwear over her ankles. She let him pull the soft shirt he had brought with him over her head. She didn't pull away when he wrapped the robe gently around her shoulders and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Where is your phone?" he asked softly.

"In my backpack," she mumbled.

"I'll go get it." His voice was so much calmer than she felt. Christine shivered as his thumb wiped just under her eye. She wondered if she was crying. Truth be told, she wasn't sure herself. "You can get comfortable, call your Mrs V."

"I have school in the morning." Christine wasn't sure if she was arguing with him or reminding herself. She suddenly wasn't sure if he ever intended to let her leave; the thought was both exhilarating and terrifying and she wasn't even sure how she reached the conclusion.

His hand slid away from her cheek and she let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"I know," he said gently. "And if you choose to go I will take you."

She nodded slowly, rubbing at her arms. Knowing that she was totally hidden under the thick robe was oddly comforting. "... Erik?" she whispered again.

"Hm?"

"... are we going to do that again?"

She could actually feel the weight of his eyes as he looked at her. He was silent for a long minute and she wasn't sure what exactly that meant. "Not tonight," he said eventually. "Did I hurt you?"

Had he? She wasn't entirely sure but she shook her head anyway. "I don't think so," she mumbled, huddling into the soft robe.

He seemed relieved by that. She watched the tension drop from his shoulders. "Good," he said softly. "I didn't intend to hurt you, Christine. You know that, right?"

She just nodded, holding onto the too-long sleeves of the robe. It was comforting to hold onto something.

"Do you believe me, Christine?" he murmured gently. He actually sounded like he wasn't sure himself and she shivered. "When I tell you that I love you - do you believe me?"

The weird thing was, she did. It was _wrong_. She knew that it was wrong, that it wasn't _normal_. Nothing about him or the situation she had somehow dug herself into was normal. But she believed it fully. "I believe you." Her voice cracked on the words - her throat was incredibly dry.

He was suddenly touching her again. His slender hands were framing her face, tilting her chin up so that she had no choice but to look up at him - him and his yellow eyes, his thin lips, that unsettling white mask. "You will have everything I've promised; _be_ everything I've promised, Christine," he murmured. "Can I kiss you?"

She wasn't sure why he was asking now. It seemed pretty silly after everything he had done in the past half hour. But he asked gently, kindly, and she couldn't stop her slow nod. She wasn't sure if she wanted to.

When his lips met hers they were cold, gentle and slow; this time, knowing it was coming, it wasn't quite as overwhelming. She let her own lips move shyly against his, mimicking his movements.

It was a short kiss and when he pulled away from her his hands moved, smoothing her hair slowly. "You don't have to think about it anymore, Christine," he murmured. "Not if you don't want to."

"Okay," she whispered, nodding with the word. He sighed and pressed one more kiss to her forehead before he stood to his full height and left her alone for the second time that night.

When he came back he handed her the boxy flip phone and set a steaming cup of tea on the end table beside her. Mrs V's contact was already selected. He didn't say anything, he just stared at her, and she had no choice but to hit the call button.

"Hello?" a little voice answered.

"Samantha?" Christine asked, unable to keep herself from smiling at the sound of the little girl's voice. "Hey, sweetheart, it's Christine. Can i talk to Mrs Valerius?"

"Are you coming home soon?" Samantha asked, a familiar whine creeping into her voice.

"Tomorrow, after school. What's going on?"

"I wanted braids tomorrow," she whined.

Christine bit the inside of her lip. "Cindy can help you. She's a real good braider."

"Cindy is mean and you're better."

"Well, I'll help you braid it the next morning, okay?" Christine said quietly. She couldn't help the honest guilt she felt. She hadn't spent a full night away from the house since she had moved in. "I promise I will but I need to talk to Mrs V."

"Fine," she huffed into the phone. Christine listened, trying to pick out anything out of place in the background, anything that would justify her demanding Erik to take her home but there was nothing. Just the usual quiet. "It's Chrissy!" She heard Samantha announce in the background.

There was shuffling as the phone was handed off and Christine pulled her feet onto the edge of the couch, resting her chin on her knees and trying to ignore the way Erik was watching her.

"Christine, sweetheart, is something wrong?" Mrs Valerius was a sweet lady. Christine had always liked her the most out of anyone she had been placed with. She _cared._ Christine was pretty sure that if she had ever had kids of her own she would be a good mom.

"No, nothing's wrong," she said, forcing herself to smile and hoping it would help to keep the edge out of her voice. "I was wondering if it would be alright if - I know I haven't ever done it before but a friend invited me to stay over tonight and I wondered if it was okay if I did."

"... will her parents be home?" Mrs V asked, sounding unsure.

Part of Christine wanted to tell her the truth, wanted her to demand that she come home now. The other part of her wanted to stay - wanted his music, wanted the quiet, wanted - whatever it was he had offered her. She glanced up at Erik. "Yeah, they'll be home," she lied quietly.

"Well, I don't see why not, Christine," Mrs V said. "I'm so proud of you. I told you it would get easier."

Christine closed her eyes. Mrs V sounded so genuinely happy with the thought that she had made a friend that it honestly made her feel even more guilty than she had talking to Samantha. "Yeah, you were right," Christine forced out. "I'll be home tomorrow after school if that's okay."

"We'll see you then," Mrs V said cheerfully. "Have fun, sweetheart. I promise Cindy and I can hold it down for one morning."

"I'm sure," Christine whispered. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Sounds perfect."

Mrs Valerius was the one that hung up. It took Christine a long moment to pull the phone away from her ear and flip it closed. Erik was still staring at her like he expected something. She wasn't sure what he was waiting for and sometimes that was pretty exhausting too. "She said it's okay," she offered eventually.

"Good," he said softly, handing her the teacup that had been abandoned on the end table. She hated his mask. She hated the blank white thing. It hid his expression from her entirely. Even if the other one had been nothing but a mask it offered her a glance of his expression. "Drink it, Christine," he prodded, two fingers tapping the bottom of the cup. "It will help you relax."

She wanted to ask him why that was, what kind of tea it was that he kept making for her, why she always felt so heavy after she drank it. As she looked at him, crouching down in front of her and staring at her intently, she thought maybe she didn't want the answer. Maybe she didn't want the answer to a lot of her questions. If she didn't _know_ she couldn't be upset. If she didn't know then she could let herself fall into whatever it was he was creating for her.

Instead of asking anything, she brought the rim of the cup to her lips and took a deep drink. Near the bottom of the cup her eyelids were growing heavy; sometimes she fought it. Tonight she let it happen. She let her eyes close and leaned back against the too-cushiony couch. He must've thought she had fallen asleep because she felt him take the cup gently and she heard the clink of it on the end table.

Let him think she was asleep. She didn't mind it in the slightest. She didn't pull away when she felt his knuckles brush against her cheek. She didn't fight him when his hand found the back of her neck and he slowly shifted her until she laid on her side. All she could do as she felt him cover her in the soft blanket that he left on the back of the couch was sigh.

"Shush," he breathed softly, tucking the blanket around her. "Just rest, Christine."

So she did.


	9. Chapter 9

Erik was... embarrassed, to say the least.

He wasn't sure what exactly had come over him. He hadn't _intended_ to take it that far. Not in that moment.

He had played the scenario out in his head multiple times, waiting over the torturous weeks for her to finally broach the topic of her midterms. Her silence on the subject told him she had failed - surely she would have mentioned it if she did well. None of the scenarios that he had imagined in his head included taking her to the floor. None of the scenes he had honestly imagined ended up with him between her legs.

It wasn't that he _regretted_ it. He didn't. Not entirely. He could admit that somewhere in the back of his head he had already grasped onto the idea that he would be her first; to deny that he wanted it would be a complete lie. It was only pieces of it that he regretted.

He regretted that he hadn't been slower with her, regretted that he hadn't taken the time to actually ease her into the idea. He regretted that he hadn't made it more romantic - while he had never paid it much mind he had listened to girls and the way they described their first time as _special_. He hadn't made it special for her. He regretted that. While she didn't deserve it - of course she didn't, she was a good, sweet, kind girl and he acknowledged the fact that she _deserved_ far better than him - he could have at least put some small effort in. For god's sake, he could have at least taken the girl to a bed instead of taking her on the floor like some sort of depraved animal.

What he would not - _could not_ \- regret was sharing such an intimate thing with her. He would not regret the words he had spoken to her. He would not regret her breath on his throat and her hands on his back, the way that she clung to him like an anchor. He could not regret it if he wanted to.

She didn't stop him, he thought. She never asked him to stop, never pulled away from him. Erik had waited the entire time for her to. He liked to think he would have listened - had to think he would have listened. He was many things but no one had ever been able to rightfully call him a rapist. He wondered if that was still true. She hadn't said _no_. She hadn't said _stop_. He wasn't sure why he still felt like he had done something terribly wrong.

If _he_ was embarrassed, he could only imagine that she was mortified.

Christine didn't sleep for a particularly long time. He had dosed her carefully. He didn't want her to sleep entirely through the night - she would be starving come morning if she did - he only wanted her to doze for a short while. Quiet her mind. Give himself a minute to walk away from her and _think_ before he lost his head any more than he already had.

He found her standing in the hallway just outside of the music room, rubbing sleepily at her eyes.

"Christine?" he asked, making his way up the hallway to her.

"Hm?" she hummed, blinking slowly at him.

"Come here," he answered, wrapping one arm around her shoulders as he steered her in the direction of the kitchen. "How do you feel, sweetheart?"

"I'm really tired," she mumbled. He thought she must have been. She leaned into him pretty heavily. "I'm really thirsty. Can I have some water please?"

"Of course you can," he answered softly. "We're going to sit you down, get you some water, something to eat. Are you hungry at all?"

"A little bit," she mumbled, blindly following his direction as he helped her into a chair.

"Then we will only get you a little bit," he teased.

She mumbled something that he couldn't quite hear and when he pressed a cold water bottle into her hand she looked at him as if he were a god. Perhaps he hadn't been as careful with the dose as he thought he had been.

"I want to get a little food in you and then we'll get you to bed, okay? But you need to eat something."

She nodded slowly, leaning against the table.

"Turkey sandwich," he offered quietly. He wanted to actually _cook_ something for her but if she was that thirsty he was afraid to put anything too heavy on her stomach. The last thing he wanted was for her to get sick. "I have white, brown and rye bread. Which do you like?"

"White," she sighed. "Can I please have more water?"

"Of course you can," he said gently. "What do you like on your sandwiches, Christine?"

She wouldn't give an answer and he ended up running through a list of everything in his refrigerator, watching and waiting for her to nod or shake her head just the slightest bit.

She picked at the sandwich. Eventually she made it through most of it and Erik finally agreed to let her lay back down. She drank three whole water bottles and Erik grabbed a forth to send her to bed with - dehydration wasn't something that he wanted to risk. He didn't want her to suffer any more for his idiocy than she already had that day.

"Do you want to go to school tomorrow, Christine?" he asked as he led her toward the guest room.

She nodded slowly. "Yeah," she mumbled.

"Okay. I'll make sure you're awake then, okay?"

"Mhm."

She went along easily until they reached the bottom of the staircase. There she froze, actually planting her feet and pulling away from him weakly.

"I can sleep on the couch," she said quickly. "It's - it's comfortable. I can sleep there. It's okay."

His brow furrowed beneath his mask. "You aren't sleeping on the couch, Christine. There is a perfectly good bed for you."

"... with you?" she whispered.

 _Oh_. Well. If he tried to say that it didn't hurt a bit he would have been lying. Truth be told the thought hadn't honestly crossed his mind. "No, sweetheart," he reassured her gently despite the sting that it left. "Your own bed, just for you. I promise."

That seemed to mollify her enough to at least follow along with him.

He wanted her to look around the room. He wanted to see that look of wonder that crossed her face when she saw the hand-carved vanity. He wanted her to tell him how much the canopy on the four-poster bed made her feel like a princess. He wanted to watch her dig her toes into the plush, soft red carpet.

The poor girl was so exhausted that he was just lucky she made it to the bed before she collapsed. He tucked her in as well as he could manage to before he turned to leave. In all honesty, he thought she was already asleep.

It was her hand on his sleeve that stopped him.

She was crying again and he sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. He wasn't even sure if _she_ knew why anymore. He wasn't even sure if she knew _where_ she was let alone what had happened in the last few hours. "Come here," he murmured, helping her to sit up.

He pulled her into his arms and she didn't resist him. He let her press her warm, tear-stained face against his throat and he stroked her hair slowly.

For the first time, _he_ sang to _her_.

If she hadn't been so out of it he thought she may have had a bit more of a reaction. She stiffened, just for a moment, and then she relaxed into him, practically melted.

She let him run his hand through her hair, she let him rub her shoulders and back soothingly. She sniffled a few times, and she fell asleep in his arms, her head lulling against his shoulder.

He should have laid her back on the pillows and left then but he couldn't find it in him to. He held her for just a while longer, savoring her even breath ghosting against his throat, pressing his lips in her hair. It smelled like cheap shampoo and he couldn't find it in himself to mind. It felt right, having her there in his arms like that. And suddenly he realized why his heart had plunged straight into his stomach when he thought about what he had done.

It wasn't guilt. It was the fact that he had no idea if she would ever come back.

* * *

"I will give you until Monday, Christine. Take the weekend and rest."

_She would never go back. Never. Never._

That was what she told herself when he dropped her off at school the next morning and she had finally escaped the warm confines of his car. She didn't _have to_ go back. She could confess the entire situation to Mrs V and if she had to, she could even go to the police. She knew where he lived, what he drove, at least two of his possibly numerous appearances.

_No one would believe you._

Who would? When she really thought about it it all sounded pretty crazy to her too. It sounded like the kind of story a girl her age would come up with in a creative writing class. She couldn't even give a good description of his original mask - she had never looked at it that carefully and any description she did give would only be half right because of her stupid eyes.

_Yes, Doctor Harris, the renowned composer. You see, his eyes are yellow and if you look close, it isn't his face! You can peel it right off and he…_

He what? She wasn't completely sure herself. She hadn't stopped him. In the moment, she hadn't wanted to. She enjoyed his attention, she _wanted_ him to want her. Had he really done anything wrong? Was it unfair of her to feel so hurt, so oddly betrayed?

The thing that got her was that _the only person she wanted to talk to about it was Erik_. That was the part that hurt the most. If it was anyone but him would he be upset by what she told him? If it were anyone else she had to think that _he_ would believe her. He always listened to her. He always believed her.

The more she thought about it the calmer she got. On a scale of terrible things it was pretty low, she decided. She could be happy about it. If she wasn't now she could find a way to be.

If she was honest with herself all she had ever wanted was to _be_ wanted, to _mean_ something to someone. She did to him. Maybe it was confusing or a little weird, but even now, away from him, she believed what he said. She believed that he loved her.

"Mrs Valerius?" she asked softly when she took that wriggling baby from her arms.

"What sweetheart?" Mrs V wasn't even looking at her, sitting at the rickety dining room table and desperately trying to calm the crying infant in her arms.

Christine chewed the inside of her lip. She wanted to tell her about what was going on. She wanted to tell her about Erik, confess to her lie from the night before and tell her where she had actually been. She wanted to ask a million questions to see if Mrs V could offer her some guidance, help her to rationalize it all. "What would happen if I dropped out?" she asked instead.

Mrs V only glanced at her, quickly shifting her attention back to the infant she was rocking. "Well…" she said slowly. "You'd have a real hard time finding a job in the future. It ain't like it used to be. They'd probably take you back to the group home."

"That's not fair," Christine argued with a huff. "If I was still with my dad I'd be allowed to do it."

"It'd be your daddy's job to talk you out of it," Mrs V pointed out calmly. "He's gone and now it's the state's job… Christine, you know better than that. Are you thinking about doing it?"

"No," Christine lied quickly. Probably a bit too quickly but Mrs V didn't seem to notice at all. "I just… wondered is all. Someone at school was talking about it today and I - I guess I was curious is all."

"You don't have to go to college," Mrs V said. "No one expects you to - but you gotta finish high school… I think Nicole needs a change."

Christine tried her best not to let the comment sting but it did anyway. _No one expects you to_. No one expected her to have good grades. No one expected her to excel. No one expected her to be anything more than just average.

No one but Erik.

As she changed Nicole's diaper she realized that was really all anyone expected her to do. To be helpful. Maybe to be a mother. They probably expected that from her too early. They expected her to be one of the _statistics_ that they were all warned about in drug classes and sex ed.

Mrs Valerius never brought their conversation up again so Christine didn't either. Instead she hummed under her breath and spent her evenings quietly holding the sheets of music Erik had given her just past the tip of her nose, trying to hear it in her head when she had to be silent.

She decided, then, that she _would_ be something. _No one expects you to_. No one but Erik. And maybe he was right.

* * *

"I'm a foster kid," Christine greeted Erik the following Monday.

She watched the way his eyebrow lifted with her declaration as he took her backpack from her. She felt a little better. It really _was_ a convincing mask. "I am more than aware of that, Christine."

She huffed and crossed her arms, following him through the emptying hallways of the school. "So the _state_ thinks they're my daddy," she continued. "And Mrs V says that if I drop out they'll make me go back to the group home. I really don't want to go back there. It was… bad. And I wouldn't be able to come back to our lessons much because they're real strict about curfews and times and always knowing where we are."

"You will not go to a group home," he soothed her, opening the passenger door of the car for her and waiting for her to slide in. "I wouldn't allow it," he added, closing the door being her.

She was ready for him by the time he got into the driver's seat. She waited for him to start the car before she crossed her arms and fell back against the seat. "But how?"

"How what?" he asked, backing out of the parking spot.

"How would you make sure that didn't happen?" she asked. "I think - I really, really don't want to go back there, Erik. I really don't. It was the worst place I've ever been."

"I've already told you, sweetheart," he reminded her gently. "I will take you away."

Christine chewed her lip, looking out of her window. "... just like that, huh?" she asked. She wasn't really sure if she was nervous or excited by the idea. It wasn't like she had much to stay around for, she reminded herself. She had bounced from home to home enough times to learn that no one was really _impossible_ to live with.

"Just like that," he said simply. "All that you have to do is say the word."

"Tonight?" she asked, her eyes fixed on her window. She couldn't look at him. If she looked at him she was afraid that she would completely lose her nerve.

"Ambitious but if that is what you decided I'm sure I could manage it," he answered.

She ran her hands over the sleeves of her coat. She wasn't sure why she bothered to wear it anymore. It was ratty and thin and hardly kept the cold out. She would've been better off adding a second sweatshirt and forgetting it completely. The snow was strangely pretty, sparkling brightly in the rare sunny day. "Where would we go?"

"South," he answered ambiguously. "I promised you warmth. So first we will travel south. I'd like to take you overseas but it will take a few months to get the proper documentation together for a passport. It's not a necessity but it certainly makes things easier."

"Just like that," she repeated in a whisper. "I just - I just say that I want to go and that's that."

When his hand found hers in her lap she actually was surprised. She wasn't sure whether she was comforted or off put by the way he squeezed it gently. "Just like that," he repeated. "All that you have to do is tell me when. I will take care of everything else."

Christine finally glanced toward him and realized he wasn't looking at her at all. "You really think I can make it off of music alone?" she asked nervously.

"I don't think anything," he answered, glancing at her. "I don't _believe_ anything. I know that you can. You have a rare talent. You were meant for music, Christine. You were meant for more than anything you will find here."

She swallowed nervously, nodding. "I want you to take me away," she whispered, looking back out of her window. "Not - not tonight. I need some time. But I want you to take me away."

He squeezed her hand again. She realized that it was meant to be reassuring. It was, in its own weird way.

"I will start making preparations," he answered. "Time never hurts. I will be ready when you say the word."

The car was sitting in park in the driveway of his… mansion. Christine had been calling it a house up to this point but she thought maybe that was just to make herself feel better. There was no debating that it was a mansion. Neither of them seemed ready to leave the warmth of his car and she let her head lean against the seat, tilting it to look at him. "Do you think Mrs V will miss me?" she asked quietly. If she was honest she couldn't really decide on the answer herself.

He turned toward her and looked at her carefully. Slowly his free hand raised and crossed over, smoothing one of her frizzy, fly-away hairs. "I do not know your Mrs V," he offered eventually. "I do think it would be difficult _not_ to miss you. She will be okay, Christine. She has been getting on just fine with all this time apart, hasn't she?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "And maybe… maybe if they don't have to feed me too Cindy can go to the doctor. She always gets real sick in the winter, too. Like me. Maybe it's me that gets her sick."

His smile was sympathetic. "Maybe," he said softly, his thumb running over the back of her hand. "We will get _you_ to a doctor. When we settle in I will take you to an opthamologist. Get your eyes sorted out. You'll be amazed by all of the things you can't see."

"... yeah," she whispered, chewing on the inside of her lip.

He touched her face. His thumb trailed over her cheekbone gently as he coaxed her into looking at him. "You will take the time you need. You know that you cannot tell anyone about this, right?" She nodded slowly and he returned it. "Of course you do. You are a bright girl, Christine… I will be ready. I will be waiting. You need to decide what you want to bring. You're going to pack it all in your backpack. You'll have to take a few of those textbooks out. Take the time you need and tell me when you are ready."

 _Just like that_ , she thought.


	10. Chapter 10

Erik was in a bit of shock when she said that she _wanted_ him to take her away. He had been a little surprised that she had come back without his interference in the first place. _That_? That pushed him to the point that he considered pinching himself because surely he must have been dreaming.

For two weeks they didn't talk about it. Any of it. They didn't talk about where they would go, they didn't talk about what had happened between them, they didn't talk about the fact that he had said he loved her. If she avoided the topics, he decided, he would too. It was still there, of course, hanging heavily between them but Erik found that so long as she continued to come back to him he didn't mind leaving it unaddressed. In all truth, he didn't honestly believe that she _wanted_ to go away with him.

The Monday that he took her backpack from her and nearly threw it over his own shoulder because it was so light proved to him that he was wrong.

"I don't have a lot of things," she said nervously while he stared at the backpack in his hand. "And the other girls - they're gonna count on the hand-me-downs so I didn't want to take too much clothing."

"You're ready?" he asked, looking at her closely. He needed to hear it. He needed her to say it, otherwise he wouldn't be able to convince himself that this was anything more than just some sort of sick dream to tease him.

She shrugged. "I told Mrs V how much I appreciate her this morning and I told all the girls how much I love them and if I go back… I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

He gave her a single nod. His heart was thrashing relentlessly against his ribcage and he had no desire for her to be aware of that - he had never honestly believed that she would _willingly_ come with him. He had decided to give her a month before he forced the decision for her. Now he was glad he had. It made everything that much easier, that much smoother. She would have hated him. It was all falling into place so perfectly that he honestly had trouble believing it himself.

"I will take you home," he said slowly, honestly having difficulty catching his own thoughts. "It will be a few hours - we will have no lesson today. I only have a few loose ends to tie up. You will call your Mrs V, ask her to stay with a friend again. Tell her that you will be home after school tomorrow. It will buy some time. If we cannot leave tonight we will in the morning."

He held onto her elbow. He wasn't sure why he did; she had never once refused to follow him. Maybe it was because he was waiting for her to change her mind. She didn't say anything - in fact, she was silent for most of the drive home aside from a few nervous sighs that she seemed to be using to fill the silence.

"Erik?" she whispered as he closed the front door behind them.

"Hm?"

"... am I making the right choice?"

He took the time to stop in the entryway, to take her face gently between his palms and look at her. If all she needed for reassurance was a little attention and some pretty words then he supposed he could offer it. "Of course you are, Christine," he said softly. "You'll see. I have not led you astray so far - I have broken no promises to you, have I?"

She shook her head and he used his thumb to tug on her lower lip - she always chewed it when she was nervous and it was a nasty habit that he was more than ready to break.

"I _promise_ that you are making the right decision," he said slowly. "A songbird must sing - and sing you will, my dear, for the whole world. Your Mrs V will understand - she will be so proud when she sees what you become, when she sees what we create. Of course you are anxious - I can make you some tea if you'd like. It does seem to help you."

"I'm okay," she whispered. "I'm okay - I don't want to go to sleep. I'll be okay."

He simply leaned down and pressed the lips of his mask gently to her forehead.

* * *

Christine sat on yet another overstuffed leather chair in what he told her was his living room. He had lit a fire in the large white fireplace and given her the tv remote. The news was playing quietly in the background and she stared at the mantel.

Marble, she decided. It was white marble. The rug under her feet was intricate and foreign. She wasn't sure where it was from - it was the only pop of color in the white room filled with black furniture. She was almost glad that he was taking her away, that he wouldn't be keeping her here. Everything was too perfect, white, _intimidating_.

In those last few weeks she had thought about it a lot. He hadn't been so intimidating in that little practice room even though they had been completely alone. She had tried to imagine him sitting on the ratty couch at Mrs V's house. She decided he wouldn't be so intimidating there, either.

He was rich. That's what it was. She was uncomfortably aware that everything in his home was probably valued at a higher price than her life. It was like a museum and _that_ was intimidating.

She didn't even have a sweatshirt without a hole in it.

Christine could hear Erik a few rooms over. He was muffled by the distance but he was talking - she was pretty sure he wasn't speaking English. Every so often he sounded really angry and she would burrow into the blanket she had, listening to his angry footsteps as he paced and hoping that he was on the phone and mad at whoever was on the other end of the line and not at her.

She wasn't sure how long she was in there alone for. The last thing she remembered watching was the news. When he walked into the room it was one of those late night talk-shows.

"No, no," he said softly as she rubbed at her eyes. "Don't get up, sweetheart. It's very late."

She blinked. Everything was always particularly blurred when she first woke up and his fuzzy shape was all she could make out. The fire had burned down low and the tv's glow didn't help at all.

She felt the warm rim of a cup against her lower lip. "Shh," he murmured. "Drink, Christine."

He hummed as she obeyed him, trying carefully not to spill any. The honey was soothing on her throat.

"Good girl," he murmured, setting the empty cup on the end table.

His fingers were cold on her cheeks. Her eyelids were impossibly heavy but she still felt his thin lips press to the tip of her nose and then, slowly, against hers. She felt too heavy to resist it. She wasn't sure that it was worth it. Instead she sighed, letting his fingers brush over her. They didn't travel any lower than her neck.

"Rest, Christine," he coaxed her, pressing one more kiss to her forehead.

This time, when the blackness overtook her, it wasn't entirely willingly.

* * *

Christine slept soundly in the passenger seat. Erik learned that she snored. It wasn't useful information but he enjoyed knowing it all the same. She was sweet and peaceful and snoring, her head leaning against the cold glass of the window.

He wasn't sure how long she would actually sleep for. Long enough that they would be too far away to turn around, he hoped.

He wondered if she would remember him kissing her. Part of him hoped that she had already been too far under to remember it. He would hate for her to think anything more had happened - Erik may have drugged her but he had never molested her. Not without her _conscious_ knowledge, at least, he reminded himself. She had been so sweet in her sleepy state that he hadn't been able to resist just one kiss.

He thought that he could blame the deep fear that she would suddenly change her mind at the last minute for this particular drugging. While he had the means to, jabbing a needle in her neck was an entirely distasteful thought and it wasn't a memory that he was very fond of the idea of her having.

And, if he was completely honest, he hadn't wanted her to witness him attempting to corral Ayesha into the cat carrier. It was embarrassing enough without witnesses.

Ayesha yowled loudly and unpleasantly for the first two hours of the drive. They were the longest. Erik wanted nothing more than to reach back and open the door in the hopes that she would silence herself. By hour three she had settled down and the car was silent aside from Christine's snoring.

Christine didn't wake until the sun had begun to rise. She rubbed at her eyes and stretched. She looked out of her window and over at him and then blinked slowly.

"Erik?" she whispered, squinting at him.

He had forgotten that he changed his mask. His eyes were blue, his lips were full, his nose was perfectly average. He hadn't honestly considered the fact that she hadn't seen this one - it only seemed natural to shift his appearance. He always had when he fled before. "Of course, Christine."

At his voice she relaxed back against her seat with a yawn. "I'm thirsty," she complained.

He handed her the bottle of water that sat between them. "It's probably warm by now but we can stop soon. Does breakfast sound good?"

She nodded, opening the bottle and taking a long drink, looking out of the window. "Where are we?"

"I'm going to be completely honest, I'm not entirely sure myself," he answered, glancing over at her. "Passing through Illinois. You slept through the state sign."

"Oh," she said simply. Suddenly she looked toward him. "Will we see Chicago?"

It almost physically pained him to squash her excitement. "No, sweetheart. That's all the way on the other side of the state, by Lake Michigan. You will see Chicago one day, though, I promise. Chicago, New York, London - you'll see them all."

"Oh," she said again, looking back out of the window. "Erik?"

"Hm?"

"Can we go to Florida?"

"Is that where you want to go?" he asked, glancing over at her and the way she was curled up in the seat, her temple against the window while she stared out. He wondered if she was just trying to see it better.

"It always sounds so nice when people talk about it," she murmured, shrugging one shoulder. "I think everyone likes Florida. I've never seen it."

"It's very humid," he answered slowly. "It rains a lot. If you want to go to Florida, we can go to Florida. We can always move on if you don't like it."

She nodded and shivered. "I'd like that."

"Are you cold?" he asked, already turning the heat higher as he did.

"A little," she admitted, wrapping her arms around herself.

"When we stop for breakfast I'll get another sweatshirt for you. I think they're all back in the trunk."

Christine looked over her shoulder and blinked. "Is there an animal in here?"

"A cat," he answered. "Her name is Ayesha."

"... I didn't know you had a cat," she said, staring at the carrier. "She's really quiet."

"You wouldn't. She doesn't like people much. She tolerates me… she's a good companion," he said. He was glad that she was finally awake. He hadn't realized how much silence bothered him now that he had her around so often. "She yelled for the first two hours. I think she just finally tired herself out."

"... will she let me pet her? When we stop?"

"She might," he answered slowly. "She also might bite you. Don't stick your fingers in there - she hates being caged and she's probably particularly angry with me right now. But you can try later. When we stop for the night and she can stretch her legs a bit."

* * *

The hours and days started to blend together. Rest stops all looked the same and Erik seemed to have a fondness for small mom and pop restaurants.

Christine didn't see him eat much. He would order coffee and tap his foot nervously, one eye on the television screens that played the news. When he did order food he never finished it - he would pick at it and leave a nearly full plate behind.

She realized, somewhere in the second day, that she didn't have a phone anymore. She wasn't sure if she would ever know what he did with it. She didn't ask about it. The only person she had ever used it to contact was Mrs V and she guessed that she wouldn't be able to do that anymore anyway.

Sometimes he let her play with the radio. He would encourage her to hum along with it. Other times he asked her to turn it off and said that he had a headache. When that happened usually they would only make it another hour or so before he insisted they needed to stop. Fifteen or thirty minutes at a time, he would sneak off to the bathroom and he would come back far more cheerful and awake.

She was pretty sure whatever he was doing wasn't legal but he was always a lot nicer afterwards so she didn't complain.

Christine didn't really have many complaints other than the fact that her legs got cramped and usually they didn't stop until really late at night. Sometimes they would go to two or three different hotels before he decided he found the right one. She wondered if it was because of the way they were set up; there was always a door in the center between their rooms and he made her promise to leave it unlocked after he came over and checked the locks in _her_ room. She was still pretty sure he didn't really sleep. Sometimes she could hear the television from his room and she could almost always hear him moving around. Sometimes she could hear him talking in another language. He didn't always sound angry but he usually sounded tense when he did. She knew because she hadn't really been sleeping either, even though she tried really hard. She didn't want to think about what he was _actually_ doing, so she didn't. She just laid there silently and listened.

The cat was almost always quiet. She only ever heard it meow once or twice and she wondered if he gave it something like he gave her in the tea.

They were somewhere just inside of Tennessee when he came into her room late at night for the first time. She knew they were in Tennessee because she had seen the sign shortly before they stopped. He pointed it out to her just like he had pointed out the Kentucky sign. She thought he probably wanted her to be excited but she wasn't really sure what she felt. They were states away from home and she missed braiding Samantha's hair in the mornings. She tried not to think about it too much but she was pretty sure he could see that she was at least a little bit homesick. That was when he started pointing things out to her, like funny sounding street names and the animals in fields they passed. It helped a little bit.

He didn't say anything when he sat on the edge of the mattress. He just reached out and ran his fingers silently through her hair. When he kissed her she didn't try to turn her head, she didn't push him away or pretend to be asleep. She was pretty sure she knew why he was there; she didn't want to hear him say it. Something about it was _almost_ comforting. It was familiar, at least. Just one small thing that hadn't changed; he still wanted her and even though it made her stomach twist with anxiety it was relieving.

"Do you trust me, Christine?" he murmured.

His breath was warm on her cheek and she nodded. His cold thumb dragged slowly against her cheek.

"Tell me," he pressed. "If you trust me then say it. Out loud."

"I trust you," she whispered. It was dark in the room and even with halfway decent eyes she was pretty sure she wouldn't be able to see him.

"Good," he said softly. His hand was creeping through her hair and he lifted her head gently. She felt fabric against her eyes - it was soft. "I'm going to do something for you, Christine. I trust you too. That's why I won't bind your hands. The only thing you aren't allowed to do is remove the blindfold. Can you do that, Christine?"

"Yeah," she breathed.

He hummed and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Of course you can."

He peeled the sheets back and she shivered as his hands traced over her. He was always so cold, so, _so_ cold. She wondered if she would be as uncomfortable if his hands were warm.

She supposed she would never know.

 _At least his breath is warm_ she thought as he silently stripped her of her pajamas and kissed her bare skin. _At least he_ -

The sudden sensation of lips closing around her nipple broke her train of thought as she gasped. She wasn't really sure if her hands on his shoulders were trying to pull him closer or push him away.

_Stop thinking._

It was his voice that said it. She was _sure_ that it was. His mouth was busy and she hadn't even felt a twitch of his lips.

The trail of warm breath left behind his cold kisses made her shiver as he worked his way down her body. She could hardly breathe; he held himself carefully over her but he might as well have been bearing down on her with his full weight.

It was when she felt his fingers slip between her legs that she tensed. He was spreading her open and she just _knew_ that he was staring at her.

"Are you afraid, Christine?"

This time she felt his breath against her inner leg with his question and she shook her head, not trusting her voice to answer him.

"Then relax," he murmured, pressing a kiss just against her inner thigh. "I will not hurt you; relax and you will enjoy it."

He hardly gave her a moment to process what he had said before his tongue delved into that space between his fingers. She jolted at the sensation and his free hand forced her left hip against the mattress, holding her in place as his lips wrapped around the most sensitive spot of her body.

He was _cruel_. That was the only word she could come up with as he sucked relentlessly at the over-sensitive spot and all but ignored the terrible sound she made. Both of his hands were holding her hips now, pressing her firmly against the mattress so that she couldn't even jerk away from him like she had tried to.

 _Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking_. She couldn't get his voice out of her head and finally, _finally_ , he eased up. She felt what she was pretty sure was his tongue gently rolling against her and it was much more tolerable.

His left hand moved, sliding inward against her thigh. When he slipped one finger inside of her her head pressed back against the pillow. She was fisting the sheets tightly and he didn't seem to mind it. A second finger quickly joined the first and she couldn't stop the contented mewl that escaped her. It felt _good_. The rhythm he had found sent a tingle up her spine and straight to her scalp.

He hummed and this time, when she moved, she rolled her hips toward him instead of away.

He took her apart completely. She shuddered, she gasped, and suddenly she understood the phrase "seeing stars". She was pretty sure she saw them.

He slid up slowly. She could feel everything, every movement of his hands and knees as he crawled up the mattress between her legs.

When he kissed her lips she actually welcomed it. She didn't feel the blunt edge of his mask digging against her skin and she thought maybe that was why he insisted on covering her eyes.

His knees pushed her thighs apart and she felt his hand sliding between them. This time, when he pushed his way inside of her, it wasn't nearly as painful. If anything it almost felt _good_.

She thought maybe if she tried to she could convince herself that this was at least a little romantic. Adventurous, at least. She could pretend a lot of things. If the tea she was sure he would bring her afterwards was mild enough maybe she could even believe them.

He was kissing her this time, at least. His lips were brushing against hers and his sleep pants were a lot less painful rubbing against her thighs than his jeans had been. When she pulled her knees up, just a little bit, she even gave a surprised squeak at the sudden new pleasure with the changed angle.

This time, when his breath shuddered and she felt that warmth deep inside of her, he didn't immediately pull away. He rested there a moment, his breath against her cheek. Eventually he shifted and kissed her, pulling out of her slowly and gently before he rolled off of her.

He eased her slowly into his arms, pressing a kiss into her hair.

"I love you," he murmured.

She swallowed and nodded. He didn't seem to mind that she didn't repeat the words.

"I'm going to leave this on, just a little while," he said slowly, his lithe fingers playing with the knot in the blindfold. "You sounded so sweet, almost like a kitten. Did that feel good?"

His voice was warm and soothing and she nodded, burrowing against his chest. For the first time she actually felt comfortable there, like she belonged. No one had ever held her before him and it was… nice. The way he rubbed her back and kissed her forehead was sweet. "What are we?" she mumbled.

"What are we?" he repeated softly. "You are mine and I am yours. That's all there is to it. My little kitten."

"You're mine?" she whispered, closing her eyes behind the blindfold and listening to his heartbeat as it slowly settled.

"Of course I am. That's how it works, isn't it?" he asked. He sounded so content at that moment. She had never heard him sound as calm and loose as he did just then. "Only a few more days, I promise. Then we can get out of the car, get back to our lessons. Do you miss our lessons?" She nodded and he hummed. "So do I."

She blindly played with the collar of his shirt and bit the inside of her lip. "I haven't been sleeping very good."

His thumb pulled gently at her lip and she finally let it slip from between her teeth. "I know… are you nervous?"

She shook her head and sighed. "Do you think, maybe, in a little bit - do you think you could make me some tea?"

He pressed his lips to her forehead, holding them there for a long moment. "Of course I can, kitten."


	11. Chapter 11

"Bonnie and Clyde."

"Who's that?" Christine asked, digging all the way to the bottom of the bag of chips in her lap.

Erik glanced at her with a small smile. "Sometimes I forget just how young you are."

"That isn't nice," she huffed, looking back out of her window.

"It isn't an insult," he pointed out. "Youth is a good thing. They were bank robbers. They traveled the states - it was in the thirties. They got away with it for quite a while."

Her nose scrunched up and she ate another chip. "I don't wanna rob banks."

"They also died at the end," he said. "I'm not saying it's a perfect comparison, but it's something like it. We're basically a couple of fugitives now. It's a little romantic, if you really think about it."

She sighed and looked back out of the window, chewing her chip thoughtfully.

Erik did his best to distract her from whatever was going on in her head. If he was completely honest, he was worried about her. She was quieter than usual. Sometimes she would stare out of the window for hours in silence. She had always filled the silence with nervous chatter - now she didn't.

The only time she slept was when he sedated her. She asked for tea every night when they stopped.

She watched the news. When they stopped he could hear it from her room. She paid more attention to the screens in the restaurants than she had in the beginning. He wondered if she, like he did, was watching for any sign of herself on the screen. There was nothing. He had no doubt that she had been reported missing by now. There was no way her caretaker was still missing her in a headcount and hadn't noticed.

He had been halfway tempted to make a call himself to get her on the screen, give her some hope that _someone_ was missing her enough to actively search.

If it wouldn't have made things more difficult he might have. If part of him didn't want her to think no one missed her he might have. It could only lead her to believe that she _had_ made the right choice; she left with the only person that cared enough to keep track of her. He held out hope that she would find her way out of the rut she was in; endless days in the car wore on him too.

He knew where they were going. A few late nights were spent browsing properties on the small screen of his phone. A call or two to his bankers and he knew that everything would be arranged properly. Two bedrooms, three bathrooms. The house had an open plan, a grand piano and a screened patio. The eight foot privacy fence around the back yard had been a major selling point. It wasn't the luxury that he had grown used to and it wasn't the ramshackled shed of a house that she was used to. It was a _compromise_ and it was comfortable enough. It was pretty and open, bright and inland and he hoped it would be enough to lift her spirits at least a little bit.

He picked it for her. He would have preferred a less open plan, a few less windows, a bit more privacy. He recognized that having her own bedroom was more privacy than she had ever been afforded; he couldn't decide if that made him feel bad for her or if it made him glad that she was already used to someone constantly digging through her things.

Sometimes, when she grew quiet, he would simply reach over the center console and take her hand. She didn't seem to mind it much. She wouldn't pull away and sometimes when they stopped now, she would even hold onto his sleeve all on her own. She didn't need to know the way it made his heart race. He would prefer that she didn't in all truth.

When he pointed out the first palm tree to her, she had perked up. She hadn't ever seen one in person before.

"Do they _all_ grow coconuts?" she had asked, sitting up and staring out of the window as they passed by.

He had chuckled. "No, kitten. Only some of them. There are lots of different kinds - kind of like pine trees."

"They all look the same to me," she said, leaning back against the seat.

"They won't," he promised softly. "Once we get you a good set of glasses you'll be able to see the difference."

* * *

Christine had started paying more attention to the signs they passed. There wasn't much else to do in the car. Just watch the passing street signs and the blur of color that went by outside of her window. She couldn't really read the street signs but the big " _welcome to_ " signs were easy enough to see. She got excited when she did see them. Progress was progress and every one they passed reminded her that they were one minute closer to being out of the car.

Apopka was the last one she saw. She always held on to the names for a while after she read them. That one really stuck out because it sounded silly when she said it in her head.

Florida was sunny and bright and a little bit of a lie, she thought. The sun looked warm, the little display on the dashboard of Erik's car said it was sixty degrees but she still shivered when they stopped and she climbed out of his warm car.

_It's better than snow_ , she thought. It was warm, it just wasn't quite the tropical heat she had expected. Erik told her it was because of humidity.

He had been a lot more gentle with her since that night in Tennessee. She wasn't sure why - they didn't talk about it just like they didn't talk about that day in his music room - but he was and she appreciated it. She wasn't sure how she felt about it when he would reach over to hold her hand so she tried not to think much about it at all. It just _was_. A lot of things just _were_. Like the constant icy cold of his skin and the way he would stare at her like he was trying to figure her out. That wasn't really new for Christine. There were too many questions and if she asked them she was pretty sure he wouldn't answer anyway. Even if he did, it would just be cryptic and poetic and she'd be even more confused.

He started calling her kitten. She wasn't really sure how to ask him to stop. She wasn't sure if she wanted him to stop. She wasn't sure about a lot of things - the only thing she could say she was completely sure of was that she missed having her own bed and the way Mrs V would halfway listen to her and spout off generic advice that was hardly ever useful. That was probably what Christine thought about the most. She hoped that they weren't too worried about her.

When Erik turned into a neighborhood she perked up a little bit. It was a normal, average neighborhood. The houses all looked really similar, there were cars in the driveways and Erik even stopped the car when a little girl went running across the road. They had done a lot of driving but this was the first time he took her through a neighborhood.

The driveway he pulled into was in a cul de sac, the one in the center. There were two other houses on it and they were both a decent distance away. He put the car in park and sighed.

"Wait here, kitten."

So she did. She watched him make his way to the front door and look under the two overturned flowerpots. He seemed irritated when he made his way back. He searched through the mailbox and then he made his way around the house, unhooking the latch of the gate and disappearing behind the fence she couldn't see over.

He was gone long enough for her to unbuckle her seatbelt and play with the radio. The cat started to yowel from the back seat. Christine felt bad but she wasn't really sure what to do about it - she had tread into his room exactly once and tried to pet her. She had only been hissed at and she gave up on that quickly.

Erik told her that Ayesha would warm up to her but she had doubts about that.

Christine tried her best to ignore the terrible sounds the cat made and she looked up at the house. It was white. Not quite white - off-white, almost like the paint had been dirty on the stone walls. She couldn't decide if the stone around the lower half of the house was real or if it was plastic. There was a slight cover over the front door, held up by two thick, white pillars. The windows she could see were large but she couldn't see inside; the curtains were shut. There was a flower bed below the large front window, completely overgrown with weeds.

When Erik made his way back he opened her door and leaned over her, turning the car off and taking the keys from the ignition. "Come with me."

She took the hand he offered her and let him help her out of the car. She let him close the door behind her and she followed him up to the front door. He produced a key from seemingly nowhere and turned it in the lock, pushing the door open. "Where are we?" she asked, staring into the dark house.

"Home," he answered simply.

"... really?" she asked, feeling like she was frozen on the little stoop of the house.

"Really," he answered. "Is it not satisfactory? Look inside. You won't know until you see it all."

She forced herself to step over the threshold. She wasn't really sure why she was so uncomfortable with the thought. Maybe she had convinced herself that this was her life now; the car had become safe. She knew what was expected there. She knew what was expected when he crept into her room late at night. She knew what had been expected in that little music room and in _his_ music room.

This was different. She had no idea what was actually expected of her _living_ with him. They hadn't been _living_ together, simply traveling.

He flicked the light on and she blinked. It was bright and it took her a second before she could actually look around.

It was all perfectly normal. The walls were white, the couch that faced a flat screen television in front of the bay window was black but it wasn't leather. There was an armchair that matched it, a wooden end table and coffee table. She could see the kitchen from where she stood, full of shiny new appliances but otherwise just… average. She wasn't really sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

Every floor except for the kitchen, entryway and dining room was covered by a plush, neutral colored carpet. The rest was tile. The only thing that actually stood out at all was the large black grand piano to the right of her.

"No basement, I'm afraid," he said from behind her. His cold hands were resting on her shoulders. "They flood far too easily - the rain can be a bit overwhelming for a sump pump. What do you think, kitten?"

What did she think? "It's… nice," she answered eventually. And it was. Everything about it was nice. It was clean and open and large and she could see through the sliding glass door behind the kitchen table. The patio was screened in and paved, bushes grew along the privacy fence and she could see some flowers, pink and blooming big and bright from between the overgrowth of weeds. It _was_ nice and she had no idea how she felt about it.

"I'll show you your room," he said, squeezing her shoulders gently. "Come with me."

So she did. She didn't drag her feet when he held her elbow and pulled her gently along. The hallway was shiny wood and he led her through the first door on the right.

The carpet looked soft and the bed was bigger than any she had slept in, aside from the ones in the hotel rooms they stopped at. It was plain and boring, the furniture was plain brown and generic.

"Your bathroom is directly across the hall," he said, finally letting go of her arm. "My room is the next one over. There isn't _much_ house but it isn't terrible, is it?"

"No," she answered softly, glancing up at him.

His smile was tense. "Look around, kitten. I promise you'll warm up to it. I'll start unpacking the car."


	12. Chapter 12

When their lessons began again, Christine seemed to come into herself a bit more. Erik was relieved by that. When there was music, she seemed to relax. Even when they weren't the ones making it.

Erik invested in a small stereo system. It sat in the living room and was severely overworked. Christine would occupy herself regularly with the small dial, sampling every station that they could get. She seemed far more entertained by the stereo than the television.

It was distracting but Erik slowly grew used to it. He didn't _mind_ the background noise, he was just accustomed to quiet. He had known, when he took her, that it was something he would be giving up. As much as he sometimes tried to convince himself that she wasn't, she was more than the cat that had kept him company thus far. She was more than a pet that could be put into a crate when he needed quiet.

All that to say, she certainly wasn't the loudest companion. Aside from the music that she always left playing, she was a generally quiet girl. She was good at finding things to entertain herself with and she hardly required much help aside from reaching the higher shelves in the kitchen cupboards. He had considered investing in a stool and he had also considered moving more things to the top so that she would be forced to talk to him more often. She was tidy and unobtrusive; in all honesty, there was no better companion for him.

He had known that - of course he did - but to have it confirmed was always welcome.

The first time he worked up the nerve to visit her bedroom in the night she was fast asleep. It was approximately a week after they arrived. He could blame the empty teacup on her bedside table - he was fairly sure of that. She still hadn't stopped asking for it every night.

So he sat on the edge of her bed for a while, he listened to her breathe and the slight catch of her snore. The most he dared to do was twist one of her golden curls around his finger and press a gentle kiss to her forehead. She never stirred and he left her undisturbed beneath the blankets.

It took him another week to try again. The truth was that it _was_ nerve wracking. So long as she never told him no out loud, never actively pulled away, he could convince himself that there was nothing terribly wrong about the more intimate aspects of their relationship. He dreaded that eventually she would.

But she didn't that night. She was quietly receptive to him and his touch, just as she always had been. She let him lose himself buried deep inside of her and the truth was that she would never know quite how deeply he felt the love that he would mumble to her afterwards.

She drank her tea before he left and he stayed a while longer, promising her that he would leave when she fell asleep.

He didn't. He couldn't. He basked in her warmth for a few long hours. He traced his sin-stained fingers along the porcelain skin of her back and he kissed her head; he removed his mask and buried the atrocious, noseless _thing_ he had to call a face in her wild curls and he didn't slip out of her bedroom until a few hours before the sun began to break on the horizon.

There were very few things that Erik could confidently say he would never forget; even now, looking back, his memories were peppered with long dark gaps that he was sure were filled with things he _should_ remember; the first night that she knocked on his bedroom door was burned into his memory, etched deeply in his very self. It was the memory that he would recall as he sat and silently composed in the days to come.

There was a thunderstorm. The rain was torrential; it battered loudly against the house and the thunder was so close that he was fairly sure the house actually shook. The storm was so loud that he wasn't sure how many times she knocked at the thin bedroom door before it registered in his mind.

He slipped on his mask and opened the door to find her standing in the dark hallway, glassy-eyed and crying.

"What's wrong?" he asked, lingering in the open doorway.

"It's so loud," she mumbled, the words almost slurred while she wiped at her tears. "Where is Samantha? Samantha - she ha-hates storms and sh-she must be s-so scared and -"

"Come in, kitten," he answered softly, stepping back and letting her pass into the room. He closed the door behind her.

There was no question in his mind that she had already finished her tea. She was only half lucid, swaying on her feet.

He walked around her and moved Ayesha from his bed; the cat eyed him unhappily but he was sure that she would forgive him as soon as breakfast rolled around.

"Come here," he coaxed her gently, one hand on her shoulders as he led her toward his bed. She didn't resist it at all. "It isn't storming where Samantha is, kitten. I promise that she is just fine. She's probably asleep, just like you should be."

"I woke up," she mumbled.

He looked at her carefully, her glazed-over eyes, her dilated pupils and the way she swayed on her feet like she was trying to find her footing on a boat. "Where are we?"

"Home," she whispered, chewing the inside of her lip and staring at the center of his chest.

"Where is home, Christine?" he coaxed, brushing his fingers along her cheek and tucking her hair behind her ear.

She sniffled and wiped at her eyes again. "Florida."

He was relieved by her answer. She wasn't quite as out of it as he first thought, just mildly sedated. "Do you want to lay down here for a little while?" he offered gently.

She didn't answer. Instead she pitched forward, her trembling arms wrapped around his middle and she pressed her overheated face against his chest.

Erik wasn't really sure what to make of it. Christine wasn't one to initiate physical contact and this was the first affectionate gesture she had offered him of her own volition. Eventually he brought his hand to her hair, stroking it slowly and reveling in the way that she clung to him tightly.

"You're cold," she complained in a whisper, shivering.

He knew that. He always had been. She had never acknowledged it out loud before. "I'm sorry, kitten," he said softly. "If I could be warm for you, I would."

She sniffed and nodded. "You would, wouldn't you?" she murmured.

"I would do a lot of things for you," he answered, finally wrapping one arm around her shoulders, trying not to catch his fingers in the knots already formed in her hair.

"Like what?"

"I would kill for you." His answer was completely serious but he did his best to keep his tone light; it wasn't a lie if he only let her believe that it was an over dramatic exaggeration. If she didn't believe that he was capable it was all for the best.

"I miss everyone," she mumbled. "Even Mr V. He wasn't very nice but I miss him too. I think - I think some of them might miss me. Maybe a little bit. You wouldn't leave me, would you?"

"Never," he answered softly.

"Not like I did," she sighed.

He ran his hand firmly along her upper back, rubbing at the tension that he felt there. The poor girl was working herself up; she had to be. The sedative should've been enough to wipe it away but it was still there. Eventually he pushed her away only the slightest bit, tilting her head with two fingers under her chin so that he could search her eyes. "Do you think you can be happy with me?" he asked eventually, the question quiet and soft.

She blinked up at him. Her lower lip was trembling but she nodded slowly.

"You're just a little emotional right now," he said softly. "It's understandable - the storm and the tea, all of the change - if you'd like to stay here with me, even for a little while, you are more than welcome to. You don't like to be alone, do you?"

"No," she whispered.

He nodded at that. "I know you don't, kitten. You don't have to be anymore. You have me now. You know that, right?"

"I have you now," she mumbled, her brow furrowing. "Because you're mine and I'm yours."

He pressed his lips gently to that crease in her brow. "That's exactly right," he answered softly.

* * *

"You're ready."

Christine was absolutely confused. He wouldn't even look at her. He stared at his hands on the piano and didn't move an inch. "For what?"

"An audition," he said to the piano. "Nothing too overwhelming - something community. Theater. It will be good for you. You need to get used to singing in front of more than just me. A community theater is the best place to do it."

"... I don't want to do theater," she whispered. The thought was overwhelming. So many eyes looking right at her. His suggestion alone made her nervous.

He finally turned toward her. She couldn't really read his eyes but he was firm. "Something ensemble," he said eventually. "That would be a good place to start - not alone. Not quite yet. You are not ready for a lead anyway. If you couldn't do it, I wouldn't suggest it. I have no interest in watching you humiliate yourself."

"I don't - I'm not ready for that," she said quickly. "You know - I still - I don't even breathe right all the time and -"

"If you will not even try then we might as well pack the car back up and take you home."

His words, his _tone_ was cold. He had already turned back to the piano. One of his long fingers caressed the white keys.

It was the first time Christine could clearly identify that he was threatening her and she wasn't sure what to think. She wasn't sure if he _would_ follow through but he _sounded_ serious. "You said that you wouldn't leave me." She didn't realize how breathless she was until she tried to speak.

"You said that you wanted music," he countered. Five of his fingers played a quick, simple scale. "If you have changed your mind then you were right over a month ago - that high school diploma will be vastly important."

"I still want music," she said, wrapping her arms over her chest. "I didn't - I never meant that I don't."

"Then you will audition," he said slowly. "I can give you everything I've promised but you will have to be willing to be uncomfortable. I can't do it _for_ you. If you _aren't_ willing… it would be best to turn back before you fall too far behind. The choice is entirely yours to make."

 _You'll have to be willing to be uncomfortable_. Well, she certainly had been.

 _He's right_. There was a certain kind of bitterness that came with the thought. She had sung with a choir, would it really be that much different?

"What if I don't get it?" she asked, playing with the cuff of her sweatshirt.

"You will," he answered simply.

Christine huffed. "And what if I don't?" she asked sharply. "Will you just send me back, let me go to that group home you promised I wouldn't go back to?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, closing the book on the piano. "If you do not get a place - and you will, you should know well enough by now that I do not make promises that won't be kept - you will simply try again until you do. Do you want to fail? Is that what this is?"

"Of course not," she breathed. "Erik, I've done everything you've asked. I'm states away from everything I've ever known. I wouldn't - if I wanted to fail I would have stayed there, stayed in school."

His fingers plucked out the same scale he had played moments before, slowly running up and back down. "Sing," he said on the third pass.

"What?"

"The scale," he answered. "Sing it, Christine. Breathe. Watch your posture. Sing the scale."

She wanted to refuse. She wanted to cross her arms and tell him that he was being unreasonable but for

a moment, just a moment, she was actually terrified that he would follow through with his threats. So she dropped her arms, straightened her posture, and when he reached the bottom of the scale again she joined it with her voice.

"Ooh," he said when they reached the top. "Keep the vowel pure. Don't drop your shoulders."

She switched from an ah to an ooh, following the scale he played. He inched higher and she followed it without a thought.

"Listen to yourself," he said softly. "Effortless; do you remember how you sounded when I found you? How small your range was? You struggled this high once. Look at how far you've come in such a short amount of time; how far _we've_ come. You _will_ audition and you _will_ perform, Christine. It isn't a question and it isn't an offer. Once you've done it, you will see how much easier it gets."

He stopped playing and she sang through the scale one more time, not wanting him to scold her.

"You wanted someone to see you and I did," he said after a moment of heavy silence. "I was the only one that did. You have to see yourself. I have always done what is best for you; this is indisputably good for you. You have to learn to sing in front of strangers just as effortlessly as you sing in front of me. Will you audition?"

She rubbed at her eyes but she nodded. What other answer was she supposed to give? He was _right_. One day she would have to sing in front of someone else; she wanted to sing. She wanted to _be_ something. Her dad told her that she would be. _One day the opportunity will come_. _He_ was her opportunity. Erik. That was what led her here in the first place. How could she willingly walk away from it?

* * *

Christine was guaranteed a spot before she ever stepped foot into her audition.

Erik wasn't an idiot.

He had no doubt that she would blow it if she was left to herself. Not because she lacked talent and not because she would purposefully sabotage herself; simply because she was shy and it was her first audition. She was unsure and shaky. Watching her was somewhat like watching a fawn trying to learn how to walk. It was pathetic and yet, oddly endearing.

Erik was all too aware of the way that the game was played. Sex, of course, was valued above all else. Where that failed, money could fill in. Very little in the field honestly relied on talent, which Christine had a wealth of all her own.

It took two meetings, a few well-placed, fairly placid threats and a somewhat substantial _anonymous_ donation to guarantee her a spot. Community theater was easy; it was cheap. The step was good practice for the both of them. She would certainly cost him more than she benefited him, at least until she managed to make a name for herself. He didn't mind it so much; what use was wealth if it wasn't to spend?

It would be worth it if it opened her eyes a little. Erik could admit that he was biased; she was _his_. _His_ creation, _his_ student, of course he valued her above her peers, but the truth was that she did have quite a bit of raw talent. He had never heard a voice quite like hers. Perhaps it was because she was so meek and mild; it was powerful and emotional and he would have hardly believed that it came from her if he hadn't witnessed it himself.

As he expected, the audition went terribly. She joined him in the car wide-eyed and confused.

"I sounded like Ayesha at breakfast time and they still picked me," she said, shifting uncomfortably and pulling at the edge of the skirt that he made her wear. It was modest - it fell below her knees - but she seemed to be uncomfortable in anything but pants. "So many people sounded better than me."

"They must have heard what I did," he answered easily. "Your potential. Everyone has audition nerves, kitten. It's perfectly normal."

"I was _so_ nervous," she said. He could practically feel the excited energy rolling off of her. "My voice cracked _three_ times. It was so bad."

"We will have to keep you hydrated," he said. "No phlegm?"

"Gross," she mumbled.

He could help but to laugh at that. "Perhaps but it's important."

"No gunk," she said seriously.

"Good," he replied, looking over at her. "I'm very proud of you, Christine. I know that was tough but you did it. Are you excited?"

"I kind of am, actually."

"I could tell from your grin," he pointed out, turning her chin toward him with two fingers. "You have an appointment now - a bit of a celebration, a bit of a necessity. We're going to go get you some glasses. Once you can actually see the music it'll be even easier."

Erik had never seen anyone so utterly unaffected by the dilating eye drops at the opthamologist before. Sometimes he almost wished that he could trade eyes with her just so that he could see _how_ bad her vision was. When he asked her if things seemed blurry when she rejoined him in the waiting room she shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly and said that it wasn't any worse.

They would have to order the glasses. He let her flip through the book of frame designs even though he was no longer confident that she could even see them. She picked simple black frames and he paid upfront, leaving his phone number for them to call when they were ready to be picked up.

Nearsighted with a fairly severe astigmatism. It was a wonder that she hadn't failed her classes entirely, he thought. He wasn't sure that even with glasses he would trust her to drive - not that he would want her to anyway. He enjoyed having her rely on him. He liked hearing her thank yous even though they were hardly necessary.

He would like being there when she could finally see the world correctly for the first time too.


	13. Chapter 13

The glasses wouldn't come until after the first rehearsal. Erik told her she would be fine. He spent days going over the script with her and playing through the music so that she would have _some_ leg to stand on, even if she couldn't quite read it.

It did help. She had no idea what to actually expect - she had never been in any kind of actual production before, not even in school, but she had always been pretty good at keeping her head down and following other people's leads.

"Eventually you will need to break out," Erik told her. "But for now, just get a feel for it. There will be plenty of opportunity for that later, after you get through this first show."

She _thought_ she was ready.

It was odd, realizing how heavily she had come to rely on him. She had been alone most of her life. School hadn't ever made her _nervous_. She just kept to herself and stayed quiet.

Walking into the theater and the crowd of strangers alone was nerve-wracking and she honestly hadn't expected it to be. She didn't realize how used she was to Erik being around. He was _always_ there. And now he wasn't and she was alone and she was supposed to sing. Without him.

Realizing that she missed him was confusing on its own. Realizing that she didn't consider him a stranger anymore was even more so. She wasn't sure what she considered him anymore - it had all changed so quickly and was still strange enough that she wasn't really sure _how_ to define it, but stranger definitely wasn't it.

It wasn't _terrible_ in the end. No one bothered her too much and even though she couldn't really see it she stared at the sheets of music and pretended like she could. No one really said anything to her at all until the last break, an hour before the end of rehearsal.

Christine had spent every break before that sitting against the wall at the back of the stage and staring at her script, pretending to try to memorize it. It was boring but it also kept people away from her. No one bothered her and she didn't feel rude doing it.

It didn't stop this girl, though. She plopped down right next to Christine.

Christine glanced at her out of the corner of her eye before she immediately went back to her script. She had long, dark hair and she was thin and tan.

"You new around here?" the girl asked eventually, peeking over at Christine's script. "They aren't gonna make us go off-book for a few more weeks, ya know. You can put it down for a little while."

"... I just wanna be prepared," Christine mumbled in a weak defense of herself.

"I think you're more prepared than most of us," she said, leaning back against the wall. "I'm Meg. What's your name?"

"Christine," she answered, staring stubbornly at her script and praying silently that she would just go away.

"Pretty name," Meg said, blowing at a strand of her hair to push it out of her face. "You don't need to be so shy, y'know. _Most_ of us aren't that full of ourselves. No one's gonna bite."

"No, everybody's been real nice," Christine said, finally looking away from the booklet. "Really, they have. This is just the first time… well, it's the first time I've done anything like this and I wanna do well."

"You'll do great," Meg said with a grin. "You're here for a reason, y'know? If you couldn't do it you wouldn't be here. And besides, the only people that come to see it are people's friends and family. No pressure. No one really expects a whole lot. And if you're worried about it, I mean, we could always get together and run through the script. I don't mind."

"I appreciate that," Christine said. And she did. Meg was weirdly nice. No one had ever really approached her like this before and she definitely didn't expect that kind of offer.

Meg bumped her gently with her elbow. "C'mon, one more hour. You can sit with me."

So she did. She sat with Meg and she giggled at the comments that Meg made under her breath and it was… nice, honestly.

Christine had never had a friend before. Meg's elbow nudging her and the way she giggled made Christine wonder what else she had really missed out on.

* * *

Christine had been a chatterbox from the moment he picked her up. Something about it was nice; she was always so quiet. To see her excited about anything at all was a good change. It settled his uneasy nerves at least a little bit.

"And I even made a friend!" she said as she climbed out of the car. "Or, I think I did…"

Erik's mouth instantly went dry. He tried to remind himself that he should be happy about it. Christine needed an acquaintance, she needed to learn how to network and be social with someone other than him. A _friend_ , though. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. He didn't like the thought of her confiding in anyone else. He doubted that she quite understood what could and couldn't be said. "What is her name?"

"Meg," Christine chirped.

The click of the lock on the front door matched up perfectly with his relieved sigh. Knowing that it was a _female_ friend made it at least a little easier to swallow. "That's good, kitten," he said, trying to ignore the way the lie burned in his throat. "I think - well, I think we should talk about what that means," he said softly, locking the door behind her.

"What do you mean?"

Her brow was furrowed and he watched that familiar crease form on her forehead. He led her to the couch with one hand on the small of her back, sitting her down and getting down on his knee in front of her, holding both of her hand. "You don't want to go back to the group home, do you?" he asked slowly.

She blinked at him. "Of course not - I didn't - did I do something -"

"No," he said softly, cutting her off. "You haven't done anything wrong, kitten. It's just… important that you understand that if you don't want to go back there are certain things that you can't talk about. Because if you do, you will lose me. All of this. They will take you away, back to that group home, and there's nothing I will be able to do about it."

"I may have flunked a few classes but I'm not an idiot," she huffed, pulling her hands away from him. "I get that, Erik. I know. You'd go to prison. I'd get taken back. I know. I get it. I'm not _stupid_."

He was caught off guard by her sudden outburst. He wasn't sure whether he should be angry for the way she talked to him or relieved that she _did_ understand the gravity of the situation. "I have never thought that you were stupid," he said calmly, as soothingly as he could manage. "It's just very important, Christine. For both our sakes, you understand that, right? That you can't tell anyone about our relationship? That you can't tell anyone how you actually got here?"

"Yeah," she mumbled, her cheeks tinged pink while she looked away from him. "I know. I get it. I won't. I promise."

He slowly placed his hand over her knee. He half expected her to pull away but she didn't. She just stared at his hand and his thumb as it drew slow circles on the inside of her knee. "I love you, Christine. It isn't forever. You don't have to lie forever."

She nodded slowly, her eyes not moving from his hand. "When will my glasses come?" she mumbled.

"Any day now," he answered softly. "Are you excited for them?"

She nodded slowly and he smiled at that.

"I'm glad," he continued gently. "You'll be amazed. I'd like to take you to a park or something. Trees will fascinate you."

"... Erik?" she mumbled.

"Hm?"

"... do you really love me?" she asked quietly, her voice wavering.

He looked at her carefully. "Why else would I do all of this for you? You said it yourself, kitten. I could very well go to prison."

She shook her head and her eyes dropped back to his hand on her knee. "I don't know," she answered eventually. "I wonder that too."

"Maybe I just haven't shown you well enough," he said softly. "I _do_ love you, Christine. Very, very much. One day I'll find a way to prove it to you. One day you won't wonder. One day you'll be just as happy with me as I am with you. It'll all take time, hm? Just like your voice has. And that's coming along beautifully, isn't it? Just like I've promised it will."

When she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the rubbery lips of his mask, it was Erik's turn to be completely caught off guard.

* * *

She kissed him.

 _She_ kissed _him._

She _kissed_ him.

And she had no idea why.

Sometimes Christine thought maybe she really was just stupid.

He hardly reacted. He froze. He didn't even bother kissing her back. He didn't move his hand from her knee and he also didn't move to touch her any more than he already was. It was like kissing a statue and when she pulled away he stayed stock still for a moment longer. Then he stood, turned his back and left her alone without a single word.

Christine ground her palms against her eyes. She knew why she did it. She _wanted_ to feel something when he kissed her. She wanted to _understand_ what he meant when he said that he loved her. She wanted to feel whatever it was that he did. She wanted to _want_ his touch, and even if she didn't want it she wanted to at least feel something other than the basic physical reactions that came naturally from the stimulation.

She wanted to love him. She wanted to feel whatever it was that he did. It wasn't there. The only thing she ever felt around him was nervous.

Christine was looking for change. She was ready for it. She made her first friend and it wasn't as bad or as hard as she would have expected it to be. She was used to Erik; she wanted to feel something half as much as he said he did.

He was right about a lot of things and so she thought maybe, just _maybe_ , he was right about this too. Maybe if she just let herself _try_ she could fall for him, too.

It wouldn't be so bad, she thought. Not really. He wasn't the worst person she had ever had to spend time with. He was moody sometimes and he was pretty intimidating but she wouldn't say that she was _afraid_ of him. Mr V had been more violent in front of her than Erik ever had. And he wasn't too difficult to please, either. Not as long as she sang and didn't complain when he visited her bed at night. Even that wasn't _so_ bad. She could find some enjoyment in it and he always seemed pretty determined to make sure that she did.

Only she thought he might be a little bit mad at her now. Because she kissed him, he left and he hadn't come back. She wasn't really sure _why_ he would be mad at her for that - he was always allowed to kiss her and she thought it was pretty unfair if she wasn't allowed to - but she was always kind of worried that he might be mad at her. He was confusing and it was pretty hard to tell most of the time.

And he didn't come back. Not for a few hours. Her stomach was rumbling but she was too comfortable laying on the couch and staring mindlessly at the television to care much.

"What are you watching?"

She shrugged one shoulder and glanced toward the hallway. "I dunno," she answered. "Some sitcom, I think. There are too many commercials and I forgot."

He was moving toward her slowly. "Do you mind if I sit with you?" he asked eventually, his voice soft and gentle.

She forced herself to sit up and shook her head, rubbing at her always-bleary eyes. "No."

He sat down next to her and she stared at the television. She had absolutely no interest in what was on it but she wasn't sure if she wanted to look at him.

"Are you tired?" he asked halfway through the second commercial.

"A little," she mumbled, rubbing at her eyes again. It was a lie. She was utterly exhausted. He took everything out of her that rehearsal hadn't.

His movement was slow, almost like he wanted to make sure that she comprehended what was happening as his arm wrapped around her shoulders and he pulled her closer.

She didn't fight it. She let herself lean against his thin, cold chest and she let her head lean against his bony shoulder. If she was completely honest, it wasn't the worst thing in the world. She was tired enough that it was halfway comfortable and she was warm enough that the chill of his skin was soothing.

"Here," he said, moving her gently so that he could pull the blanket from the back of the couch. He wrapped it around them both and pressed his dry lips into her hair. "Is this okay?" he asked softly.

He had never been quite so gentle with her and she didn't want to question it. It was nice. So she just nodded and shifted a little bit until she fit more comfortably against him.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know that I'm not very comfortable - and I'm cold. I know. If you'd like to put the blanket between us -"

"It's okay," she mumbled. "I'm comfortable."

He seemed to relax with that reassurance. He trailed his long fingers along her throat gently, absentmindedly, and it was soothing along with his evenly measured breaths and the dull hum of voices from the television.

She relaxed against him, into him, and for the first time in a long time, Christine fell into a drugless sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

She would never know how much power she held over him. Erik was determined to make sure of it.

It took one kiss to flip everything upside-down and he wasn't fond of the sudden weakness it instilled in him. He wasn't fond of a lot of things at the moment. He wasn't thrilled that her social circle was expanding. He wasn't overjoyed by the sudden confidence in her step.

He certainly wasn't enamored with her new attitude. She was snippy and combative, particularly when she first got home from rehearsals, and had he not already hated the _idea_ of her having friends he would gladly declare his dislike for _Meg_. It was obvious that she wasn't the best influence - not that Erik had any room to talk. He was more than aware that he was the most nefarious force in her life.

Despite the seeming self contradiction, he was utterly convinced that he really _did_ want the best for his Christine. He just couldn't help but be a little selfish along the way.

They were merely moments, though. He reminded himself of that when they did happen. She was still that sweet girl that he had fallen in love with a majority of the time. She was young. He reminded himself of that, too. He could hardly remember being sixteen but he was certain that he was far more unruly than she had ever been.

When her glasses came, he did take her to a park. She stared at the leaves on the trees, the blades of grass, the flowers. She could count the petals. Even if her vision wasn't _perfect_ , it was a marked improvement and she was absolutely overjoyed by it.

She had flung her arms around him and thanked him again and again, she had pressed a sweet kiss to his covered cheek and all he had been able to do was mumble a you're welcome and keep his knees from buckling.

There were nights that he could count on her climbing into his bed, half-drunk on sedatives and silently crying. He had learned how to predict them; dark, stormy nights. It was more likely on the days that she was particularly combative. Ninety nine percent of the time he could predict it just from the way that she grasped the coffee mug when she took it from him. Those nights, when she lingered somewhere between dazed sadness and unconsciousness, he would sing to her and gently rub her shoulders. It never took her long to quiet and drift off to sleep.

This night was different.

It wasn't stormy; quite the opposite. It was a calm, clear night and even the moon was bright. Looking out of the window, Erik could see clear across the yard. There hadn't been any rain at all that day, hardly a cloud in the sky, and the air was just cool enough that he even had his bedroom window propped open.

She wasn't crying when he opened the door and let her in. The telltale half-stumble was missing from her step and she was wearing a crimson nightgown that he had quietly bought for her and left tucked deep in the back of her dresser drawer.

Seeing her in it, he cursed himself. It was light and airy; the spaghetti straps left her smooth skin bare and the sheer material was hardly better at concealing her than if she had been wearing nothing at all.

There had been fantasies when he saw it hanging on the rack. It was far different hanging from her; far better than he had imagined in his head and his mouth was incredibly dry.

"Is something the matter?" he finally managed to ask, eyeing her suspiciously as she sat on the edge of his bed.

She was uncomfortable. It was easy enough to read. Her shoulders were hunched over like she was trying to disappear and she pulled at the silky nightgown, almost like she was trying to cover her thighs. "Not at all," she said unconvincingly. Her eyes were clear and bright, even when they were avoiding his.

"You only come here when something is wrong," he prodded. He should look away from her, he knew that. He never touched her when _she_ came to _him_. While she had never been wildly enthusiastic something about taking her drugged didn't appeal to him. While he _could_ , and was sometimes even tempted, something about her restful slumber appealed to him more than any physical gratification he would get from it. She always looked so calm, so at peace.

"I never question you when you come into my room," she snapped.

She had looked up at him - but she wasn't really looking at him. She was staring at the center of his chest, her cheeks flushed crimson.

" _Christine_ ," he breathed when he finally found it in him to make a sound. He moved toward her, kneeling on the floor in front of her. His hands rested against the edge of the mattress, not quite touching, just at the edges of her knees as he looked up at her. "What is it - what is it that you want, kitten?"

She looked away, staring unblinking at his pillow. It took her a long moment to move. He could count the muscles that fluttered in her delicate throat when she swallowed. Eventually her hand moved, trembling, to the strap of her nightgown.

He caught her hand quickly; not tightly, just enough to still it in its path. "No," he said softly, not quite trusting that it wasn't a dream. "Leave it on, kitten."

She nodded slowly and when she let go of the strap, he let go of her hand, moving it back down to hover just over her kneecap.

He moved cautiously, waiting for her protest as he held his palms against her knees. None came and he slowly slid them upward, pulling the edge of the already short nightgown with them.

"Look at this," he murmured, running his thumb over the crease of her thigh, just along the edge of the pink lace of her black underwear. Her thigh was trembling under his hand and he bent his head down, pressing a kiss to her soft, smooth, pale skin. "So pretty and dressed up. I know that I am cold, kitten. You are a good, sweet girl to not complain."

She didn't say anything at all. Her hips shifted slightly as he slid the tip of his finger under the lace. He slid the pad of his finger along it, letting his nail lay against her skin.

"Is the nightgown comfortable?" he murmured, looking up at her.

She was staring at his hand on her thigh, the one that wasn't moving. "Yeah," she whispered.

"It's very soft, isn't it?" he coaxed, waiting for her half nod before he sighed. "You are so pretty, kitten. Beautiful, even… you didn't drink your tea, did you?"

She shook her head slowly, chewing the inside of her lip, and he squeezed her thigh gently with the hand she was watching.

"Always so shy," he said softly. "You can speak. Especially to me. You know that."

"I didn't," she whispered, swallowing and blinking down at his hand. "Drink my tea."

"Such a sweet girl," he murmured coaxingly. "Because you knew that you wanted to come to me."

It seemed to take her two attempts to speak. She paused for a moment. And then she parted her lips and a small, shaky "yes" tumbled from between them.

He hummed deep in the back of his throat. "Stand up, kitten."

She obeyed. Even when she argued with him, she obeyed. He thought that perhaps that was why he was so quick to forgive.

She was shaky on her legs, standing in the space between him and the bed, and he did his best to convince himself that her nerves were entirely because it was the first time she had ever initiated anything like this with him. He tugged her underwear down gently and slid one finger between the soft, warm lips of her sex.

Christine made a surprised sort of sound but she didn't pull away - she steadied herself with one hand on his shoulder as his finger teased her.

"Already so warm, so sweet, so _wet_ ," he murmured, honestly surprised by it.

He wasn't sure why he should be. She always had been. The body was a remarkable thing; he could never quite tell if it was desire or if she was simply so anxious she couldn't help it.

It was a question he had with every partner he'd ever had. He didn't think about it too much. Instead he dragged the pad of his finger to the nub of her clit and circled it quickly. He couldn't quite get a comfortable angle to use his mouth - not with his mask - but this he could do. He could watch her head fall back, feel her fingers tighten their grip on his shoulders, see the dazed, slack-jawed look that always took her when something _actually_ felt good for her.

He _had_ studied it. Studied her. He had learned her reactions, he had filed away the telltale signs of her honest pleasure and the way she sighed when she was simply complying.

"Come down here, kitten," he murmured. At her confused blink he let himself smile just the slightest bit. "It will be easier for you the first time." Her brow furrowed at that and he sighed. "On the floor. I want you on top this time."

"I don't know -"

"I know," he said softly. "It's okay. I'll show you. Just come down here."

It took time. Time to get her down to him, time to adjust and move her, time to relax her enough that she wasn't stiff as a board. By the time she was kneeling over his thighs he thought he might die if he didn't find some relief.

He was determined to be patient. It was the first time she had ever initiated and he didn't want to scare her off of it. So he was gentle and slow. He guided her gently and when he finally found her warmth and she jerked away, just the slightest bit, he didn't scold her. He waited patiently for her to relax, circling her clit gently with the pad of his thumb until her hips finally moved toward his hand.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathed when she finally let him push into her. He pulled gently at her hips and she moved with his coaxing, sinking down slowly on him.

She was perfection. She was _hot_ , tight, and the sweet, halfway distressed sound that escaped her made him want to hold her there forever.

He held her hips over the silky material of the nightgown, guiding her carefully and slowly. It took a great deal of effort to resist the urge to yank her down, to resist the urge to push up against her. Instead he kept his breath steady, staring up at her; her sweet, shy eyes, her lip that trembled each time she shifted just right, her fluttering, full eyelashes and the cascade of wild curls spilling over her shoulders and brushing against his chest.

He was utterly convinced, at times, that she wasn't entirely human. There was something almost ethereal about her, something potent and powerful that drew him to her in an absolutely magnetic way. He had never felt such a connection, such a powerful, uncontrollable bond, with any living being before.

She wasn't human. She was music. She was salvation. She was every piece of good that had ever burned within him; she was the melody that thrummed incessantly in the back of his head, the burn of his pulse and the ache of his heart. It was maddening, absolutely maddening in every way.

He wasn't sure when exactly he sat up. He wasn't sure when his arms wrapped around her or when he buried his mask between her loose breasts but she made no complaint for it and the wild beat of her heart in his ear mixed with her quick breath and the steady, clumsy roll of her hips had a whole new melody forming in his mind already.

In the after, still buried deep inside of her and seeing nothing but a blinding white light, he didn't hear her question. He heard _something_ but her words were muddied and quiet and whispered between her uneven breaths.

"What?" he asked, his mask still buried against her chest.

"... Meg," she said between breaths. "She - it would only be one night, Erik. Please."

He wasn't sure why he nodded. He still had no idea what she had even asked. Half drunk on her and drained, he wasn't sure he had the capacity to fully follow her. "One night what?"

"... at her apartment," Christine said softly. "She said - she will show me how to do my makeup and I - I've never had a friend before, Erik. Please."

"Who will be there?"

"Just Meg, I swear," Christine answered quickly. "And I won't - I won't talk about any of this. I swear. I promise on my life I won't."

The rational part of his brain screamed no but he couldn't quite grasp onto it. Still buried inside of her, against her, in a half-dreamlike state that had only ever been rivaled by the prick of a needle, he nodded against her chest. "Yeah," he breathed, his hand running from her hip up, brushing over the silky nightgown that he was absolutely convinced she wore just for him. "That's fine, kitten."

When her hands slid up to his jaw and she tilted his head back to kiss him, the answer seemed worth it.

* * *

"No no no, trust me, girl. All a guy like that wants is to put his dick in you," Meg laughed, tugging at Christine's hair as she braided it. "All the guys on the show are kinda gross honestly. You'll figure it out. They're nice, but better as friends."

"Really?" Christine asked, frowning at her reflection in the dingy vanity mirror. She hated pulling her hair back. She hated the shape of her face and even though the mirror was dirty, the lights around it were bright and she could see a big red pimple forming on her left temple. The glasses perched on her nose didn't really help. At least before she could convince herself her vision was just bad - now it was almost impossible to deny what she saw. "I thought he was just being nice," she mumbled, thinking about the tech member that had approached her after rehearsal.

"He _is_ nice," Meg said, twisting a hair tie into the end of the braid. "But he's totally into you. He asked you on a date."

"Really?"

"What do you think ' _Hey, we should grab dinner sometime_ ' means?"

"I don't know," Christine mumbled. "Isn't that just what people do?"

"Jesus, maybe I should call him for you," Meg laughed. "If you've never even been on a _date_ maybe a good dicking is just what you need."

"No I don't," Christine said quickly, her eyes dropping to the edge of the vanity. She didn't want to look at her reflection; she didn't want to see the burn that she could feel in her cheeks. She still felt dirty. She felt _wrong_. Like a whore, maybe. That's what whores did, right? They slept with people for money. It wasn't money but she had slept with Erik for _permission_ and that was close enough for her. If she just asked him, she was _sure_ he would've said no. He was really good at saying no. No, she couldn't have dairy, it was bad for her voice. No, she shouldn't stay up so late, she needed rest. No, she would exhaust herself if she stayed out in the sun all day and she had rehearsal tomorrow. No, caffeine was bad that close to a lesson. Before she got glasses he wouldn't even let her read; he insisted that she was straining her eyes and causing more damage. She was absolutely positive he would've come up with some reason she couldn't go out. If she was honest every day she worried that he would keep her from rehearsal; she hardly even mentioned Meg anymore because she saw that look come into his eye that always did right before he told her no. He hadn't said anything, not yet, but Christine was sure it was only a matter of time.

"Hey, are you okay?" Meg asked, actually sounding concerned. "I was just joking, really. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Yeah," Christine said, forcing herself to smile. She was getting better at it. It was a little more convincing every time. "I'm fine, I just feel dumb for not even realizing it. I'm really bad at reading people."

"Everyone is," Meg said, reaching in front of Christine and opening up a makeup palette. "I was just teasing you, anyway. Really I was. I think this blue would look really pretty on you."

"Really, blue?" Christine asked, looking at the bright color.

"Yeah," Meg answered. "Just a little bit - not all blue. It'll make your eyes pop. You have to take off your glasses but I'll show you."

Christine took off her glasses and followed Meg's instructions, letting Meg do her makeup.

She liked Meg. Something about her was carefree and fun; she was outgoing and energetic and everything Christine wanted to be. She was Christine's opposite. She wasn't afraid of anything or anyone. Christine learned pretty early that Meg was nineteen. She was going to a local school for dance and she worked two jobs to have her own apartment. She had family and friends and she was both a morning person and a night owl. Christine thought she must be pretty tired, but it never seemed to bother Meg much. She was always bright and cheerful and quick. She always had a joke or an off-handed comment that made Christine laugh whenever she did manage to catch it. Her apartment was average, maybe a little dirty, and Christine was more comfortable there than she had been anywhere with Erik. Her whole life had been clutter and infrequent cleaning and he was so organized and almost obsessively clean that it made her nervous sometimes. Sometimes she thought about the fact that all they would have to do is pack up a few suitcases and no one would ever be any the wiser that someone had lived in the house - and she thought maybe it was that that made her nervous about it.

When Christine's dad died, it did something to her. It made her realize that she was the only person that remembered him; she was the only reason his memory didn't die with him. That scared her a lot sometimes, dying and leaving absolutely nothing behind to prove that she had even been there.

"Pretty," Meg said, grinning. "There, put on your glasses and look."

It was pretty. Christine stared at herself in the mirror. She hardly even recognized herself - that was over dramatic. Of course she recognized herself. But it was _different_. Her eyes weren't just _blue_. They were deep and bright and just about the only thing she could look at. The black eyeliner made them look bigger, the mascara made her eyelashes long and delicate and _pretty_.

"See, now, if anyone asks you to dinner tonight, they're _definitely_ looking for a date. You're a babe," Meg said, tugging teasingly at the braid in her hair.

"... tonight?" Christine asked, feeling her palms already start to sweat. "I thought we were just staying here - I didn't know -"

"Relax," Meg answered. "Jesus, you act like you're gonna get arrested. We were going to but my friend texted me and he got us some tickets for a show - it'll be fun, Chris. I promise. Live a little. Besides, you shouldn't waste good lipgloss."


	15. Chapter 15

She lied to him.

Something told him that she had been. He had his suspicions. If he didn't he wouldn't be sitting in his car all the way across the parking lot, watching the trio in his rear view mirror. He had suspected it from the moment his mind cleared and he recognized what exactly she had been asking for.

He wanted to take back his agreement. He wanted to tell her that she couldn't go. He couldn't come up with a good enough reason and part of him, some small part, wanted desperately to believe her, to think that he could trust her, to believe that she was _better_ than that.

He recognized Meg. He had seen her many times. And Christine, of course, he would recognize her anywhere in any crowd. The third party was new.

He was handsome. Young. His smile was charming and he shook Christine's hand. He touched her.

The fact that Erik's anger was simmering evenly in his chest made even him nervous. It made him glad that she wasn't coming home until after her rehearsal the following evening. It gave him hope that it would either explode before he picked her up or that it would give it enough time to settle back down.

He wasn't honestly sure what he would do about it. He couldn't very well tell her that he knew; _yes, I stalked you last night_. That would certainly not go over well, regardless of the injustices she might commit. It was something that made Christine a bit difficult at times; she was naive, sure, but she certainly wasn't stupid. There wasn't really a way to spin the truth of it into something that she would accept as a good thing.

It was what he thought about as he followed them in the boy's car to the theater. After they went inside he used his phone to take pictures of the car and the license plate. He wasn't really sure what he would do with that, either, but he thought it might be useful at some point. If for nothing else, simply to confirm his own suspicions in the future.

He seethed in his car for two hours. He wasn't quite sure how he managed to convince himself that dragging her out of the theater wouldn't help the situation any but he was glad he did. By the time they emerged, Christine was hanging off of Meg's arm and not the boy's. It was relief enough, in the moment, to cool his hot temper.

He followed them back to Meg's apartment and left approximately twenty minutes after the boy did. He only needed to have the reassurance that he wasn't staying there.

* * *

_My name's Raoul. It's a family thing, but I think my parents are secretly just really into medieval times or something._

He was _funny_. He was _nice_. He held doors open and he didn't tease her for being quiet. _What's our new friend's name?_ He made her feel included and at ease and…

Christine wasn't sure what it was that she felt. She just knew that she thought about him for an awful long time after he left.

She wasn't sure what she felt, but she knew that whatever it was was dangerous. She knew because when she thought about going home, when she thought about seeing Erik, there was an awful feeling deep in the pit of her stomach.

Meg had helped her with her makeup again before rehearsal and she successfully dodged the tech crew member on the way out. When she climbed into Erik's car, she thought that maybe all of her worrying was a little over-dramatic because he didn't seem too upset.

"Meg did a good job," he commented. "Your makeup looks very good, kitten."

"Oh," she said, chewing her lip. "I think so too. Thank you. I wouldn't have thought of blue - I would've stayed away from bright colors like that but she said - she said that it would make my eyes _pop_. I don't really know what that means but I think she was right because I think it makes my eyes look pretty."

Erik was silent for a long moment and then, like he had only just comprehended what she said, he answered; "Your eyes have always been pretty. Even without makeup. Did you have fun?"

"Yeah," she said quietly. She was nervous, incredibly nervous. It was a stupid thought - there was no way that he knew - but something in the back of her mind said _what if_. "It was a lot of fun… but I missed my bed."

"I'm glad," he said, eyes straight forward on the road. "What did you do?"

She hadn't done anything _wrong_. She hadn't done anything inappropriate. She had just gone out with friends and there was nothing _wrong_ about that. Nothing at all. That didn't stop the guilt and anxiety that rolled in her stomach. She couldn't tell him the _truth_. Because even though she hadn't done anything wrong, she was pretty sure he would think she did. "Meg did my hair and makeup," she answered. "We watched movies and read over the script and ate popcorn."

He was silent for a long time, almost like he was waiting for something. Eventually he nodded his head slowly, glancing over at her. "It sounds like fun, kitten. We will have to rehydrate you. Popcorn is incredibly salty."

"Is something wrong?" she finally asked, staring out of the window and at their neighbor's front door as he put the car in park.

"Of course not," he answered. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

She crossed her arms and chewed on her lip. She _wanted_ to tell him. She really did. She had always told him everything. If she did, though, she was terrified he would never let her out of the house again. "No," she said eventually. "You're just acting weird."

"I missed you," he said. It actually sounded genuine and she sank back into the seat just a little bit. "I thought about you all night. I always do, kitten. I worry constantly. I don't know if you're safe or fed or warm - I missed you. That's all."

* * *

It was a lance through his chest.

Part of him, some small part, had faith in her. Christine had never been a liar - she had never done anything out of complete maliciousness. He couldn't help but to think that this was no different.

And then she lied to him again and he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to breathe properly again.

People didn't lie for no reason. Erik knew that better than anyone. He was a liar from head to toe but it was always with _purpose_. If she was hiding it then he couldn't help but think that there was something more to it than 'plans changed and I couldn't get a hold of you.' Because if that's what it was, if that's _all_ it was, he had to believe that she would say it.

He honestly hated how hurt he was by it. He thought that he had been prepared for it - after the life he had led one would think they were used to all sorts of pain and betrayal. He hadn't been. Not by a long shot.

She was staring at the box on the kitchen table blankly.

"It's for you, kitten," he said as softly as he could manage. "You can go ahead and open it."

She was nervous. She hesitated, pulling at the hem of her shirt, but eventually she moved forward and opened the box.

The phone that stared back at her matched his. That was the first thing he had done that morning - added a line and bought her a phone. It was risky, he knew that, but the benefits outweighed the downsides.

He could track her with a phone. He had access to the records. He could read her text messages and see the phone numbers calling her. That was why he opted for a smartphone instead of a flip phone like he had given her before.

"I imagine, now that you've had a taste of it, you will want to leave me more often," he said, watching her take the phone carefully out of the box. "We will still have to be careful as far as social media goes, but I will feel much more comfortable knowing that I can reach you and you can reach me. This way you can keep up with your friend too."

She looked up at him suddenly. "You'll let me stay with Meg again?"

There was a moment, just a beat of hope. "Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"... no," she mumbled, looking back down at the phone in her hand. "Of course not."

Erik knew that it was absolutely absurd but every time he blinked he saw the boy; his hands on her, his perfect lips - "Of course not," he echoed hollowly. "I will help you set up your phone before bed, kitten."

xXx

He wasn't sure how exactly he managed to hold it together long enough to send her to bed. She asked him, twice, if he was okay. The only answer he was able to give was a half nod of his head.

His Christine was a simple girl. She wasn't good at being secretive. He already knew that the passcode on her phone was only four letters; Daae. It was clever enough. He was the only person that knew enough to guess it.

He sent her off to bed with her normal steaming cup of tea; he already knew from the tightness in his chest that he would need something far stronger. The sedative honestly was mild; it was what he started with too. Just enough to relax his muscles and quiet the constant hum of thoughts that ran through his busy mind. At the height of his productivity, when he was deep into a project, he could go for days at a time without sleeping and hardly even notice it. The sedative had been an honest attempt to combat that; whether he was tired or not he knew that the manic periods were incredibly hard on his health. He wasn't as young as he had once been and the crash was harder and harder as the years passed.

Erik had once been determined to find a classier instrument than a spoon to aid him in his more illicit vices; the irony of the fact that he stayed up for six days straight perfecting what ended up being nothing more than a half-useable spoon holder wasn't lost on him.

The point was, he learned something from it. He learned that sometimes a spoon and lighter were enough and that it didn't matter how far he ran or what expensive trinkets he surrounded himself with; he still rose from a gutter and no matter how much he dressed himself up, it was exactly where he belonged.

It was better than he started with. That was what he told himself, at least. He vaguely remembered a time when he hadn't even had a metal spoon; he could remember making a tent from tinfoil, chasing the vapors through the air, burning it and the tips of his fingers.

Erik couldn't remember the last time he had been truly sober for more than a few hours. He experimented quite a bit in his youth; the thought of death had never bothered him in any real way and he still wasn't quite sure how or why he was still alive.

The prick of the needle was where he found his heaven. There was nothing that quite compared with the sudden rush, the way his muscles slackened and the sweet taste on the back of his tongue that always came just before his eyes slipped closed.

When he came to, he was looming in the doorway of her bedroom. She wasn't asleep. She was sitting there, her knees pulled against her chest and leaning back against the headboard, the tea that had to be cold by now clutched between her hands and resting on her knees.

She didn't say anything. She just stared back at him blankly.

He was fairly sure that time was moving a lot slower in his head than it actually was, but it felt like they were frozen like that for an absurdly long time before she finally shifted.

"Is everything okay?" Her voice was quiet and rough.

He leaned against the frame of the door. His head was swimming. Too many thoughts flashed through his mind too quickly to grab onto any of them. He felt himself nod. "I love you," he heard himself say.

She took a sip of her tea and stared at her toes. "I know," she whispered.

Closing his eyes was a mistake. Almost as suddenly as they had been gone, the images returned. It started with her hand in his - that _boy_ , his handsome face moving closer to her lips; a tanned hand between her legs, lips against her throat, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

Erik took the lukewarm tea from between her hands and set it on the bedside table. She had only sipped through about a third of it.

"You're mine," he said as he sat on the edge of her bed. He couldn't really decipher his own tone - he had no idea what he was actually trying to accomplish.

"Erik -"

"Shush," he answered, staring at her fingers. They were pulling nervously at the fabric of her pants over her knee. "It doesn't need an answer. You _are_ mine, Christine. On the stage, with your friend - I _saw_ you. When no one else did. _I_ did. If it weren't for me - wherever you go, know that you _are_ mine."

She gave a halfhearted nod, tugging just a little harder on her pant leg.

"You may not love me, but you love the music," he said slowly. "Without me, there is no music. Do you understand that, Christine? Without me, there is nothing for you."

" _I'm sorry_ ," she whispered breathlessly.

He looked up at her. Her eyes were watery and unfocused, her pupils dilated just the slightest bit. "For what, kitten?" he asked softly.

She only shook her head. "I don't know," she whispered.

He felt like he was moving through water as he reached for her, stilling her warm cheeks between his palms. "I need to know that you understand, Christine," he said slowly. "That you are mine - that no one else will ever see you the way that I do, that no one else will _ever_ love you the way that I do."

He felt the way she attempted to nod and he sighed.

He didn't even recognize what he was doing until he was counting the thumps of her pulse beneath the pads of his fingers.

For some inexplicable reason, Christine trusted him. It was an odd realization that came when he looked down at his hand wrapped loosely around her throat. Her hands were draped down at her sides, her head was leaned back against the headboard and she was staring up at him with wide, doey eyes.

It would be so easy. She didn't fight against him, not even as he slowly tightened his grasp. He could have killed her then, just like that. It wouldn't take much; that much he knew from experience. Just the slightest tightening of his grasp - hardly an exertion at all. He would never have to imagine the boy's hands on her again. He would guarantee that no one would ever taint the perfection that she was.

_And she would never sing for you again._

Just like that, his grasp loosened. He felt the flutter of her muscles against his palm as she swallowed.

He leaned down and kissed her; her soft, warm lips that moved languidly and slowly against his.

"Sleep, kitten," he said softly, pulling his hand away from her throat. "I know that you were up far too late last night."

He handed the cool tea back to her and before he could change his mind, he fled her little bedroom.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noncon. That's my warning.

Christine didn't dare to ask him for permission to leave beyond the short stints of rehearsal for at least a week. He had acted so strangely since he picked her up that she was half afraid that if she asked him he would explode; he went from gentle and admiring to aggressive and possessive at the drop of a hat. He hadn't been physically aggressive with her, not _really_ , not beyond that one brief moment of his hand on her throat, but every time his hand twitched at his side she flinched, remembering Mr V and his violent swings.

She tried her best to keep peace. She kissed the cheek of his mask and said thank you for everything that she could. When he came to her bed at night - which he did with increasing frequency since she had spent a night away, murmuring his reminder that she _belonged to him_ \- she would move with him in the darkness and dig her nails into his back, she would sigh and kiss him and wrap her legs around him and try her best to make him feel wanted.

Christine wasn't even sure if that was what he wanted, but it seemed to calm him at least a little bit. He fell asleep in her bed twice that week; she hardly slept at all those nights. For the first time, she actually felt afraid of him and she couldn't pinpoint exactly why.

When she was little, Christine's father told her to _trust her gut_. She had always been a nervous girl; it irritated her teachers and the babysitter he had hardly been able to hire, but he always told her to trust it, even if everyone told her that it was silly. She wondered if maybe the way her stomach rolled when she thought about going out again was a warning, or if maybe it was the way that it happened when Erik stood in the doorway of her bedroom and stared at her when he thought she was sleeping.

She had never honestly missed her father more than she did in that week. _He_ would know what to do. _He_ would be able to help her figure out where her fear was coming from. He always had when she was little; he had chased countless monsters from under her bed.

In the end, it wasn't even her that suggested she go out again.

Erik stood in her doorway and listened to her cry. Eventually, like he had to work his way up to it, he crossed into her room and knelt at the side of her bed.

Christine tried not to cry in front of him; she really did. She wasn't ever really sure what would cause a shift in his increasingly unpredictable moods. That night she couldn't seem to stop her tears no matter how hard she tried - she was also pretty emotional. Something in her thought that it had something to do with the tea - whatever it was that he put in it had been hitting harder and faster and she suspected that he was adding more and more. If she could manage to sleep without it she would but every time she tried she tossed and turned for hours until she finally gave in and drank it.

"Why are you sad, kitten?" he asked quietly.

She sniffed and turned her head so that she could peek at him. He left her bedroom door open and it let in just enough light that she could make him out. He was staring straight at her, inches from her face, and she tried not to shiver. "I miss my dad," she whispered. It wasn't a lie.

He moved slowly, one hand reaching for her, and she stayed perfectly still when his cold thumb brushed against her cheek, wiping her tears away. "I'm sorry," he answered.

Christine struggled. Sometimes she thought that she shouldn't believe him but he always sounded so genuine, like he believed his own words so completely, that she wasn't sure that she could. She just sniffed and he reached for the empty coffee cup on her bedside table, looking down into it before he slid it back onto the nightstand.

"You've been working very hard," he murmured. "You need a distraction, I think. That's all. Just a distraction… perhaps you'd like to spend some time with your friend on Saturday. Just a few hours. Would you like that, kitten?"

She nodded against his cold palm and his thumb stroked her cheek slowly.

"Of course," he said softly. "Get up, kitten. I'd like to show you something. You can bring your blanket with you. I know just the thing to quiet your mind."

So she did. She wrapped her comforter around her shoulders and let him half-carry her to the cold leather couch. Everything was cold and she burrowed into her blanket even more, tugging it tightly around her.

"Keep your eyes open, kitten. Just for a few minutes longer. I want to know what you think about this and then you can sleep," he said when she was finally settled in.

" _Christine_ ," his voice was just a bit harsher and she blinked. She hadn't even realized she closed her eyes. "Only a few minutes, kitten. Can you do that? You only need to stay awake for a few more minutes."

"Yeah," she answered, rubbing at her bleary eyes. Ever since she started wearing the glasses it was harder and harder to be without them. She never realized how much she _couldn't_ see.

"Good," he said softly. "Keep them open. Just listen, kitten."

When he first began to play, her eyes started to slip closed. It was soothing. His music always soothed her and her eyelids were already so, so heavy. Then something changed. Christine wasn't sure that she would be able to explain it even if she were wide awake - it was something in the music, she was pretty sure of that, but she couldn't pick out _what_ exactly it was. She just knew that it made her sit up a little straighter.

The tingle started in the tips of her fingers. By the time he stopped playing, she was crying again and she wasn't sure why.

He was silent for a long time, sitting at the piano, and she sniffed and wiped at her confused tears.

"What did you think, kitten?" he asked eventually.

"It was… beautiful," she mumbled, sinking back into the safety of her comforter.

"Beautiful," he repeated warmly. "I think so too."

The sudden quiet was unnerving and Christine pulled the comforter tighter around herself, pulling her feet up on the edge of the couch. "Will you sell it?" she asked eventually.

"...no," he said thoughtfully. "No, kitten. That is only for us. I told you - we will make beautiful music, Christine. We will do amazing things together, just like I promised."

She _wanted_ to remind him that he promised her a career, that he promised her that she would _be_ something. She couldn't find the words and instead she played with the edge of the comforter in silence.

"You're exhausted," he said quietly. "You were very good to stay awake, kitten. You can close your eyes now, if you'd like. Just lay down."

So she did. The arm of the couch was comfortable enough under her too-heavy head and she finally let her eyes close, sighing as he began to play again.

 _Mozart, not Erik_. It was the last clear thought she had before she drifted off into a deep sleep.

xXx

"Who's that?"

It was the first question Meg asked her when she met her downstairs at her apartment building, staring at the sleek black car that was still parked in the first row.

Christine kind of figured someone would ask eventually. They weren't out in public together often but someone had to see her getting in and out of the car at some point. She wasn't really sure how she was supposed to answer it. She wasn't really even sure what the _real_ answer was, let alone what lie she was supposed to tell. "He's my friend," she said eventually.

"Your friend?" Meg asked. She sounded genuinely concerned and Christine crossed her arms. "He looks old enough to be your dad."

"Yeah, he's… well," Christine sighed, glancing back at the car. "He's more like my teacher. My voice teacher. That's all."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. It seemed to upset Meg even more. Christine watched as the crease formed between Meg's eyebrows and she began to frown. "And he's just driving you around because...?"

"Please," Christine said softly, trying to keep the panic she felt out of her voice. "It's not as weird as it sounds, I promise, it's just… I don't know how to explain it. Please just let it go, Meg."

"Is that why you haven't called Raoul yet?" Meg's tone was teasing but Christine could hear the worry it was attempting to cover almost even more clearly as they made their way up to her apartment.

" _No_ ," Christine huffed. In truth, even just hearing Raoul's name made her stomach flip. When Christine told Meg she got a phone, Meg insisted on giving his number to her too. _He's already asked about you_. Christine wasn't sure what to think about that. Truthfully, she tried not to think about him too much at all. It always started with a warm, fuzzy feeling that melted into terror when Erik climbed into her bed at night and she thought about him finding out about the thoughts she had. He was _unpredictable_ and that was terrifying in itself. She vaguely remembered him telling her that he would kill for her. At the time she hadn't thought much of it, but in the last week the words had been stuck in her head and she wondered if there was a little more to them than an empty romantic phrase. "I've just been busy."

Meg hummed thoughtfully and then she laughed. "You're really clueless," she said. "Listen, Raoul is _actually_ a good guy. He's real respectful and nice. You should give him a chance. He's not the kinda guy that would hold it against you if shit didn't work out and he's definitely not the kind of guy that's just looking to get in your pants. If he was I wouldn't be hanging around him."

"Yeah," Christine answered, sitting on Meg's second hand couch. "He seemed really nice. He did. I just - I don't know."

"Mhm, _exactly_ ," Meg said, locking the door behind them. "You _don't know_. You never will if you don't give him a chance. And be honest - he's _hot_."

"If he's so good why don't you date him," Christine mumbled, reaching for the remote and turning on the too-small television.

"Gross," Meg scoffed. "He's like my brother or something."

"And you want him with me?" Christine mumbled, flicking through the channels. "That's pretty mean to do to your brother."

Meg pushed playfully at Christine's head with the tips of her fingers. "Shut _up_ ," she laughed, leaning over the back of the couch. "You're good people, Christine. You're humble and nice and _talented_. Anyone who wouldn't want their brother with someone like you is just plain stupid."

xXx

Erik had been silent the entire drive home. He was silent as he led her up the driveway, silent when he opened the door.

He was still silent when he descended on her.

Christine had no idea what to think when he pressed the rubbery lips of his mask against hers, or when his hand slid into her hair to pull her closer.

She heard a car go by outside and when he finally released her lips, she tilted her head to look out the patio door. She watched a bird fly by.

It was daylight. He was still wearing the false face instead of the mask she had gotten used to, and he hadn't said a single word.

Christine wanted to tell him to stop when he pushed her up against the wall and popped the button on her jeans open. She wondered if he would've listened. She was pretty sure he wouldn't but part of her wanted to cling onto this belief that he would and maybe that's why she never let the words out; because if she did, then she would _know_ and she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

So she bit her tongue and let him ruck her pants down. She made no argument, no attempt to pull away from him, and when she felt his uncomfortably cold hands pulling on her naked hips she moved easily for him.

He lifted her roughly, using the wall to help him hold her up, and she even wrapped her knees around his waist.

He groaned when he forced his way inside of her and she clenched her teeth, trying her best to hold back the pained sound that tried to escape her.

It _hurt_. He was fast and harsh and it hurt. There was no music, no gentleness, and she twisted her hands in his sleeves just to have something to hold onto when her head fell back against the wall.

Christine tried to ignore his warm breath against her throat and the way he panted. She closed her eyes and listened to the birds she could hardly hear chirping outside. She read the lines from the script behind her eyelids; she wondered if she could manage to be off book by the next rehearsal if she tried hard enough.

When he shuddered and let out a half groan, she sighed in relief. She flinched when he finally pulled out of her and guided her feet back to the floor.

His cold hands were on her cheeks and his rubber lips were against her forehead; now he was gentle, trying to catch his breath.

"I love you." His whisper was rough and uneven and sharp. "God, I love you, Christine."

She forced herself to nod. She forced herself to look up into his not-blue eyes and the uncanny face that was just a bit too obviously unreal now that she could see it clearly. "I know," she breathed in return, surprised by how steady her voice was. "I know that you do, Erik."

"If I could be handsome - if I could be handsome," he muttered. There was a sharp edge in his voice and he lifted her hand, pressing her palm against the fleshy rubber that covered his cheek. "I will never take it off," he whispered. "If I could be handsome, perhaps - I will never take it off again, kitten."

She swallowed nervously and shook her head. "No," she said softly. "Erik, I prefer your real eyes. Please." He was unraveling and she wasn't sure what exactly would cause him to snap from his gentle madness and into his violent - she was never sure, so she reached blindly for anything that she could in an attempt to calm him. She was very careful not to flinch away from him, careful not to pull her hand from under his.

Something behind his contacts softened and he let out a ragged breath. "You are a sweet liar, Christine," he said softly. "A sweet girl, yes. You came home. You may not love me, but you will come home, won't you?"

"Of course, Erik," she breathed. She thought it was probably best to keep the thought that she really didn't have anywhere else to go to herself. "I'll always come home."

He pulled her hand away from his cheek. He pressed his rubber lips to the center of her palm and then, just like that, he released her.

She stood stock-still right where she was and watched him as he wandered away. The fingers of his left hand were rubbing against his thumb nervously and she stared at his stiff shoulders.

Christine didn't even breathe until his bedroom door swung closed behind him. She waited a minute longer before she dared to bend down and gather her jeans and underwear from the floor.

For the first time, when she quietly closed her bedroom door behind her, she genuinely wished there was a lock on it. It wouldn't keep him out - she wasn't sure that anything would keep him out if he actually wanted in, and even if he did grant her a lock without some odd moodswing she was pretty sure he would keep a key for himself - but it would make her feel more secure. Just like everything else, she would lock it and just try not to think too hard about it.

Instead she dragged the chair from the little desk across the room and tilted it under the handle. She was pretty sure that wouldn't keep him out either, but she felt relief once it was in place. She changed into pajamas, climbed into bed, and stared at her phone in her hands.

She typed 9-1-1 into the call screen and stared at it. All she had to do was call and it would be over so quickly. Erik's footsteps lingered in the hallway outside of her bedroom door and she positioned her finger over the call button and held her breath.

Eventually his footsteps continued down the hallway and she heard the patio door slide open.

Christine deleted the three digits. As scared as she was sometimes, she really didn't want him to go to jail. She couldn't imagine him there. Something in her, as wrong as it might've been, genuinely believed that he cared about her. When he said that he loved her, she couldn't believe anything else. He said it with such conviction that there was no room for argument.

_He promised to take you away and you never said no. You never say no._

She let out a shaky breath and opened Raoul's contact, staring at the empty message screen. It was stupid. That's what she told herself even while she typed. It's what she told herself as she read the message for the seventh time. It was probably the dumbest thing she had ever done, second only to believing and leaving with Erik.

She meant to delete it but her finger tapped send, and that was that. There was less panic than she expected as she stared at the simple message.

_Hey! Meg gave me your number. This is Christine._


	17. Chapter 17

Sent 1708: _Hey! Meg gave me your number. This is Christine._

Received 1732: _Hey Christine! She told me. I was a little worried I scared you off._

Sent 1738: _I'm sorry. I've been really busy._

Received 1741: _Don't be sorry. You don't owe me an explanation._

Received 1750: _I was thinking about you. I hope busy's been good._

Sent 1758: _Mostly just busy._

Received 1804: _Maybe you won't be busy, say, Wednesday night. My friend has a band and they have a show. They're pretty bad but it could be fun. I could pick you and Meg up after your rehearsal - no pressure, I promise._

Sent 1817: _Maybe. I can try but I don't know. I'm real busy._

Erik made a habit of checking her messages every night before bed. He had gotten lax about it - all he found in the last week was rather innocent conversation between her and Meg, pointless chatter between two young girls. He still looked, of course, but he only gave it a glance. The conversations bored him and he had yet to find anything concerning.

These messages, though. It felt strangely like Christine had put her hand straight through his ribcage and was squeezing his heart.

The unfamiliar number caught his eye and he wasn't sure if he was glad that he read them or not.

The odd thing about knowing was having the knowledge and being completely helpless against it. If he told her, she would find another way around it. He highly doubted that she would let it go. Erik wouldn't have at her age - he wouldn't now. He would have just found a sneakier way to go about it.

Received 1820: _Like I said, no pressure. If not Wednesday maybe some other time._

Sent 1825: _I wanted to say thank you. For the show. I'm sorry I couldn't pay you back for the tickets but it was a lot of fun. I don't think I said thank you but I meant to._

Received 1827: _You said thank you. It would've been boring alone. I'm really glad you came._

Sent 1838: _I'm really boring... Meg told me that you're kind of into me. I just thought maybe I should let you know. I'm really, really boring. I don't even wear makeup. I just sing. That's all._

Received 1840: _You say boring like it's bad. I think you'd be prettier without makeup anyway. Does that mean I get to hear you sing?_

Erik's stomach turned. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. He knew it would happen eventually. He hadn't expected it to be at her first taste of freedom. He expected to have at least a few more months to prepare for the inevitable.

He wondered what she was doing between the messages. If she was holding her knees and dreamily staring off into space. She had only emerged from her bedroom once. She glanced out, saw him sitting at the counter, and scurried into the bathroom. He heard the toilet flush and the shower ran for about ten minutes. When she emerged, pink cheeked with damp hair, she had gone straight back into her bedroom and closed the door.

Sent 1843: _Maybe one day. I promise I'll try for Wednesday._

Erik closed the lid of his laptop. If he stared at the conversation for any longer he was pretty sure he would drive himself crazy. He wondered what she would say; if she would ask him about Wednesday or if she would try some lie about rehearsal running late. He wondered what _he_ would say. He couldn't very well tell her no without reason.

It was exhausting.

At nine thirty he dared to try to talk to her. She hadn't come out of her bedroom again and so he went to her. He mixed up a cup of tea and, like an idiot, knocked three times on her bedroom door.

There was a shuffling sound from the other side of the door and he heard her sniff.

"Yeah?" she called through the door.

"I brought you tea," he answered.

"Oh."

He heard footsteps and something scraped against the floor. The door moved in its frame, the handle shook, and he realized that she had barricaded herself inside at some point. He wasn't really sure how he felt about it. The messages that he had read were so stuck in his head that the realization was gone almost as suddenly as it came.

She held the door open and stood in it. "Thank you," she mumbled, reaching for the cup.

If gentle and kind was what she needed, he was sure he could manage it.

He let her take the cup from him. "Can I come in?" he asked softly.

Christine nodded and moved away from the doorway. She put the cup on her nightstand and sat next to her pillow.

He moved slowly through her bedroom, sitting next to her cautiously. He left a few inches of space between them. Her fingers pushed her phone the rest of the way under her pillow and he pretended not to notice. "I wanted to apologize," he said.

"... for what?" she asked.

"Earlier," he said, glancing over to find her staring at him. "I know - I scared you, Christine. I didn't mean to. I never mean to."

She swallowed and looked down at his hand on his kneecap. "You didn't scare me," she mumbled.

"Of course," he said softly, trying to keep his tone light. "You barricaded your door to keep the cat out."

She flushed bright red and stared intently at the seam of the comforter that she was pulling on.

"It's okay," he said. "I'm not upset. I know - I can be scary sometimes. I don't mean to be. That's why I want to apologize to you. You shouldn't feel scared in your own home."

"... it hurt," she whispered.

It took him a long minute to even realize what she was talking about. When he did, he sighed. "I hurt you," he murmured. "I didn't mean to do that either, kitten. Does it still… hurt?"

She shrugged one shoulder and bit her lip. "I'm a little… sore, I guess," she mumbled, glancing up at him. "But I'm okay."

"You didn't say anything," he said, looking at her closely.

She nodded, still staring down at the comforter. "I know. It's my fault."

"That isn't what I meant," he said softly. "I had no idea. You have to tell me if something hurts, kitten. If I don't know then I can't stop it. Does it always hurt?"

She shivered and shook her head. He watched a shudder go straight up her spine. "I don't like that mask. I don't want you to wear it all the time. I don't - I really don't. I know - I know you think I'm lying, but I'm not. I don't like it. I like the one you always wear more."

"I believe you." The way that she said it, he honestly did. "I won't wear it any more than I have to. I promise."

Christine frowned, her thumb running over the seam she had been picking at. "Meg asked me who you were today. I didn't really know what to say."

He shifted on the mattress. "What _did_ you say?"

She shrugged one shoulder again. "I told her you were my friend," she said, her frown deepening. "But she thought that was weird. So I told her you were more like my teacher and it bothered her even more but she dropped it… I guess I just - I don't know. I don't know what to tell people."

He expected that. The only thing that would make people halfway comfortable around them would be telling them he was her father. Erik didn't have many moral boundaries - the lie wouldn't bother him but he knew her well enough to know that she would be absolutely mortified at the thought of it. "People might think it's strange, but I think that was a good enough answer," he said. "Just remember whatever you do decide because you need to say the same thing. That's the important part."

"I don't like to lie," she mumbled.

It was true enough. She was getting better at it but he could tell that it bothered her - she could never quite look him in the eye when she was lying to him. It was something about her that he would learn to use eventually. "When you are eighteen, you can tell everyone as much as you'd like," he said quietly. "It's not that much of a wait. Once you're eighteen no one can make you go back."

"... you could still get in trouble."

"I guess that would be up to you."

That was enough to get her to look at him. Her brow furrowed and she blinked, looking over his mask like she was going to find some sort of expression hidden in the hardened material. She seemed to relax just the slightest bit. "I don't want you to get in trouble," she mumbled.

"That could change."

She scooter closer to him. Erik was never sure what to make of it when _she_ moved in on _him_. The last time she had made a move that boy had walked into her life as a direct result. He couldn't trust it but he let it happen anyway. He let her lean against his side and pull his arm around her shoulders and play with his fingers.

He rested his chin on top of her still slightly damp blonde curls and sighed. "What are you thinking about, kitten?"

"I wish things were like this more," she said, leaning a little heavier against him.

"Like what?"

Her hand wrapped around his and she pulled his arm tighter around herself, turning her face against his chest. "Easy. Calm. I don't know. I don't know how to explain it."

He held her cheek with his palm and stroked his thumb gently over her high cheekbone, tracing it thoughtfully. The whole time he waited for her to bring up Wednesday.

She never did. Instead she simply nuzzled against him and closed her eyes, holding his hand tightly like she was afraid he would pull his arm away if she let go.

* * *

Christine felt guilty.

It was the wrong feeling. She was pretty sure of that. There was nothing _she_ , of all people, should feel guilty for. But she did.

The feeling hit her all over again every time she opened her text messages and scrolled past Raoul's to get to Meg's.

For a minute, just a minute, she convinced herself that it was really fear that she felt and not guilt. She couldn't even convince _herself_ of that.

She knew, logically, that everything about it was _wrong_. She shouldn't feel guilty. She should be angry with Erik - she should hate him. When she thought of the things that he did to her there were a lot of gross words that she had to push back down.

The thing was, she didn't hate him. She _couldn't_ hate him. Not when he looked at her like she was _everything_. And he did. Every so often, when she caught him off-guard, she saw something weak in his eyes that he couldn't quite completely hide.

He _loved_ her. And no matter how misguided he might have been, how much he hurt her, she couldn't hate him for it.

She couldn't work up the nerve to ask Erik about Wednesday until late Tuesday night after her rehearsal. She half hoped that he would tell her no. If he took the decision from her she wouldn't have to feel bad for standing Raoul up - she wouldn't have to feel guilty for going behind Erik's back. As much as she wanted to see Raoul again, as much as the thought of him made the excited-and-nervous butterflies start swarming in her stomach, she thought maybe it was for the best.

Erik was sitting silently at the piano and she was laying on the couch, curled up under a blanket that he had brought her and watching reruns. It was a routine. He composed in near silence and she kept him company just by being there.

He insisted that the sound from the television didn't bother him, but she always tried to keep the volume low anyway.

Things had been calm since he apologized to her. He had been gentle and kind and mostly sane. He seemed to be _trying_. She had yet to feel the urge to barricade herself in her room again and she wondered if that would change soon.

"... Erik?" she whispered.

There was a delay before he seemed to comprehend that she had spoken. "Hm?"

She sat up and looked over the back of the couch at him. He was still looking at the music on the piano. "Meg and… Meg and one of her friends are going to a concert tomorrow, after rehearsal."

"That sounds fun," he murmured.

"... they invited me to go, too," she said softly. "I told them - I told them that I would let them know."

"I will not be able to compose without you here," he answered, still looking at the sheets on the piano.

Christine sank down a little bit on the couch. It was hard not to feel a little disappointed even though she expected it. "I can tell Meg something came up," she mumbled.

He finally looked at her. He stared for a long moment, and then he sighed. "Are you off book, kitten?"

"Yeah," she answered, resting her chin on her arm that was lying along the back of the couch. "We had to be off yesterday. I think I probably could've gone off last week, though."

His eyes shifted back to the sheets of music. "You will check in at least three times," he said eventually. "You cannot stay the night - you have to come home. I will pick you up from your friend's apartment."

"Really?" she asked, breathless. "I can go?"

"I don't see why not... I trust you," he murmured. "Come here, kitten. I need your help. I'd like you to sing something for me."

xXx

Christine was restless. She was breathless and this? This was fear. She couldn't think it was anything else.

Even in the parking lot of the theater, where she had always been and felt safe, she was glancing over her shoulder, _sure_ , absolutely _positive_ that his black car was lurking somewhere in the lot. If it was, she couldn't find it. It didn't stop her from looking - it must be parked behind something, or far back in the lot or -

" _Seriously_ ," Meg huffed, clapping her on the shoulder and making her practically jump out of her skin. "Relax, Christine. It's gonna be a good time - it isn't even a date. I give my word that at the slightest discomfort I will save you, okay?"

Christine wasn't sure how to tell Meg that being nervous about Raoul was the _least_ of her worries, so instead she smiled weakly and nodded. "Yeah, I know," she said. "You're a real good friend, Meg." _I'm sorry_. Christine had no idea what she was getting herself into but she was sure whatever it was wouldn't fare well for any of them.

"And Raoul is a _real good_ guy," Meg said, smiling. "I promise."

"You've only said it a million times," Christine huffed, pulling her hoody a little tighter. Erik had insisted she take it and in a weird way, she was grateful for it. The humidity made it weirdly chilly even though the sun was still decently high.

The only car that moved in the lot was Raoul's. Christine looked over her shoulder and took a step toward it.

_I trust you._

She looked around herself one more time and then shook her head, blinking like it would force his voice out of her head. One night. That was all she wanted. _One_ night where she didn't have to worry about him.

Raoul hopped out of the driver's seat and he was everything she remembered, his hair maybe just a little messier than it had been a few weeks before. "Hey!" His smile was warm and kind and… dangerous. It was dangerous, dangerous, _dangerous._

"Hey," she heard herself respond breathlessly, unable to stop her shy smile.

"You're both goofy," Meg huffed with a hint of amusement. "I'm sitting in the back. Don't make us late."

Christine heard the car door close but she was still looking at Raoul. He gave her half an awkward laugh and scratched nervously at the back of his head.

"You look nice," he said eventually.

Christine looked down at her oversized hoody and decently new jeans. She was ready to argue but he cleared his throat and she looked back up at him instead.

"No makeup," he said, gesturing at his own eyes. "I was right - you're prettier without it. I think you owe me a dollar or something."

"I don't -"

"I'm joking," he interrupted her. "I just - it's what I do when I'm nervous. Make stupid jokes. I promise I'm not _actually_ an idiot. Just… sometimes."

"Are you nervous?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, I mean - are you? I just… I'd hate to screw it up already. I'm not great at the whole dating thing."

"Me either," she confessed, looking to make sure Meg was actually closed in the car before she smiled weakly. "I've never actually been on a date."

"Really?" he seemed genuinely surprised, and then slowly his shoulders seemed to loosen. "I guess I must be pretty special then."

"Don't be too full of yourself." The words surprised her, light and joking, and almost as soon as they left her mouth she tensed up, waiting to be berated or dodge his hand.

But he just… laughed. "I'll try, I promise. I think Meg might actually kill us if we're late though. We should go."

xXx

Christine wasn't sure what was happening. It was dark and the music was too loud to hear anything over unless it was spoken directly into her ear. There wasn't really a _crowd_ and Raoul made sure they found a tall table that was pretty close to the stage.

He asked her if she wanted a drink and Meg ordered for her. _He's our mister twenty-one, enjoy it while it's still fun. No one's gonna ID you here._

The pinkish colored drink made her nose burn but by the second it just tasted like fruit. At the beginning of the third she didn't try to tell him no when he offered her his hand and helped her out of her chair. She was giggling and her cheeks were warm and his hand wrapped around hers made her feel _safe_. It was warm and soft and everything Erik _wasn't._

"What're we doing?" she half shouted, wondering if she was too loud.

He just grinned over his shoulder at her. "Dancing!"

"To this?!"

"Why not?" he laughed. "Come here, Christine. We can look stupid together. Everyone else is too drunk to notice anyway."

His warm hands on her waist didn't make her tense. She didn't want to peel them off the way she didn't Erik's. They were large and warm and comforting and she just followed his lead, laughing as she stumbled and he caught her.

"Light weight, huh?" he joked.

She was close, _so_ close to him, and he was warm and soft and his eyes were gentle and kind.

She blinked up at him and he blinked down at her. There was a moment of panic when he began to lean closer to her but she pushed it away, holding her breath, hardly noticing the way she lifted herself on her toes to meet him.

_I trust you._

Christine hadn't kissed many people. Erik was the only person that had ever kissed her romantically. It was nothing like kissing Erik. Raoul's lips were warm and pillowy and she wanted to feel more of them. She could taste the slight burn of the shot he had taken just before leading her away from the table and she never wanted it to end.

She wondered what they would feel like in the places where Erik had kissed her, if they would be just as nice and soft against her throat as they were against her half-numb lips.

She must have been blushing pretty bad when he pulled away because his brows knitted together in concern and he moved away just the slightest bit.

"Sorry I - you're drunk, I shouldn't -"

And she _was_ drunk. She knew she must have been. Because she silenced his by wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him right back down to her.

His hair was soft between her fingers and she sighed contentedly against his cheek.

"Let's go back to the table, Christine." His voice was soft and warm, hardly hiding his surprise. "Get some water."

Dangerous. He was _dangerous_. And she wasn't sure if she cared anymore.

* * *

"Have you been drinking?" It was a stupid question. Locked in the small confines of the car he could smell it so clearly that he could even identify the mix - cranberry and vodka.

Christine leaned heavily against the seat, staring blankly through her window. He could see her reflection in the side mirror. "Only a little bit," she mumbled, pausing as she worried her lip between her teeth. "Are you mad?"

Mad. It was a funny word. Was he _mad_? Surely. He was mad in more ways than one. He was mad that he was quite certain the boy had filled her with liquor to quiet her resistance. He was mad that he had allowed her to be in the position at all. He was mad that her pensive quietness told him _something_ had happened. He wasn't mad at _her_ , though. He heard the unspoken end of her question. "No," he said softly. "It is too late to sing anyway, don't you think?"

She made an undignified snorting sound that he had never heard from her before. "That's all you care about, isn't it? Singing and fucking me."

Erik couldn't help the way his jaw clenched. She was _drunk_. He reminded himself of that carefully as he shifted his grip on the steering wheel. "Perhaps you should not drink," he answered calmly.

"Yeah, that's it," she mumbled sarcastically. " _That's_ the problem."

He was silent. He stared at the road ahead and focused on his breathing; he counted backwards from fifty. He was sure the method had been passed to him from some hopeless do-gooder but he couldn't remember their name or their face for the life of himself.

"How was the concert?" he asked softly when he was fairly sure his heart had returned to its normal pace. Twenty-five. He felt strangely in control.

She shrugged sloppily. "Okay, I guess," she answered, tilting her head to look at him. "The band was bad but it was good to be… out."

"You are bored at home."

He could feel her eyes on him, trailing over his rubbery mask. "Sometimes," she answered.

He only gave half a nod, pulling into the driveway of the disgustingly suburban house and turning the car off. Her hand was already on the handle when he sighed. "You know that isn't true, right, Christine?"

"Huh?"

"That isn't… all I care about. I know sometimes - sometimes it might seem like it, but it isn't true. I _love_ you, Christine. Far beyond your voice and your body."

"... yeah," she whispered eventually. "I know."

He only nodded in response. "Can you walk or do you need help, kitten?"


	18. Chapter 18

_ I’d really like to see you again. _

Christine stared at the blue light of her phone. The words were a little blurry and she was grinning like an idiot, half hiding under her sheets.

Erik wouldn’t bother her. She knew that he wouldn’t. He had gotten her a glass of water, two pain killers and told her to try to drink the whole glass before she went to sleep. Now she could hear the piano from down the hallway and she knew that she was alone. He promised her bacon and eggs for breakfast and gave her a kiss on the forehead - only the forehead - before he sent her to bed.

_ I had a lot of fun. _ She responded, staring at the screen.

_ So did I. I promise I didn’t mean to get you drunk. _

_ I’m glad you did. I would’ve been too scared to kiss you. _

_ I hope you still feel that way sober. _

Christine bit her lip and stared at her phone while she typed. She could still hear Erik. The music he played was soft and she wondered if it was because he thought she was sleeping.  _ I really like you. _

She sent the message and then put her phone face down on her nightstand. She was exhausted. She didn’t feel too bad but Erik told her that she should take the pills before she fell asleep anyway and she thought he was probably a lot more used to this than she was, so she took them just like he said and she nearly finished her water before she laid back down again.

The last time she had tried to fall asleep, everything was spinning when she closed her eyes. That was why she checked her phone in the first place - when her eyes were open the world wasn’t twisting quite as violently as when she closed them. This time it was more of a gentle sway and she burrowed against her cool pillow, drifting off to sleep relatively easily.

  
  


Sometimes, Erik wondered if it would feel as gratifying in reality as it did in his fantasies when he wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat and squeezed until he stopped breathing.

Erik didn’t need to know his name to know that he hated him. It had never been a prerequisite for his hatred before and it seemed like a poor time for it to become one.

Received 0238:  _ I really like you too, Christine _ .

Erik had no idea what to do and that worried him, too. He was never very good at aimless anger; eventually it would sharpen itself to a point and he had no idea what he would do with it.

So the boy had her lips. He had her interest and her lust. What he didn’t have - would never have - was her music.

That was what he tried to tell himself, at least. It seemed a poor consolation as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror and peeled the faux skin back from his face.

He should have never taken her away. He could have let her struggle along in classes, get held back a few years. She never would have met the boy.

_ She would have met someone _ .

He gritted his teeth as the adhesive pulled uncomfortably at the sensitive skin just beside his eye.

The hardest part was the painful awareness that it was all entirely his fault. She hadn’t even wanted to  _ audition _ . He wondered if she would still be as discontented if she had never tasted her freedom.

Tempting as it was, he knew that he couldn’t simply chain her up in her bedroom and never let her see day again. There was an end in sight, at least; only a few more weeks until the production was over. It would be far more difficult for her to find a reason to be out so much; she would never tell him that she was seeing someone, he was sure of that.

He  _ had _ told her that he wanted to take her out of the country. Something told him that she might be a little more resistant to that idea than she had been at first.

He wished that he could be content with her company, that just having her there would be enough for him, but the truth was that he loved her. He wanted her to love him too. And he wished more than anything that he didn’t; it would all be so much easier.

  
  


Christine was incredibly uncomfortable.

Erik was staring at her from across the table. Just… staring.

He had been staring a lot lately.

There was nothing behind his gaze. He didn’t seem angry or irritated and he didn’t seem particularly pleased. It was almost like he stared at her because he simply had nothing else to look at.

It was unnerving. It was like he was waiting for something. The problem was, she had no idea what it was he was waiting for.

She hadn’t ever been self-conscious about eating but when he stared at her like that, it made it hard not be be. She was too aware of every bite she took; she covered her mouth with a napkin while she chewed.

The staring wouldn’t be so bad if he would  _ say _ something. But he didn’t and the silence made it ten times worse. She was embarrassed and she had no idea what she was supposed to be embarrassed for.

She cleared her throat. “Erik, have I done something?”

He blinked and  _ some _ life came into his eyes. “What?”

“You just…” she sighed and set her napkin down, staring back at him. “You’ve been acting really weird and I wondered if maybe - well, if you were mad at me. Did I do something wrong?”

His thin lips pressed together and drew into a frown under the harsh edge of his mask. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said eventually. “Have you?”

“I don’t think so, but I never know. Not with you. Are you upset with me?”

“No, kitten,” he sighed, finally looking away, down at the plate of untouched food on the table in front of him. “I’ve been composing. That’s all. Thinking about the next steps. Your show will be over very soon and I wouldn’t want you to get out of practice between engagements. That’s all. I’m not upset with you. Just thinking.”

_ The next step _ . Her heart was racing. “What does that mean? What’s the next step?”

He blinked at her and tilted his head. “I don’t know yet. You sound anxious, kitten. What are you worried about?”

“I’m not  _ anxious _ ,” she lied. “I just - I have  _ friends _ now, Erik. I’ve never had that before and I’m not ready to go away. Not yet.”

“I’ve said nothing about going away. You’ve concocted that in your own head.” His tone was a little short and clipped. He pushed his chair out and took his plate, scraping his untouched food into the trash can wordlessly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean -“

“Of course,” he said, cutting her off and setting his plate on the counter. “You assume the worst but you never mean to upset me. Are you done or are you still eating?”

Christine was never really sure if she was brave or just plain stupid. It was something she wondered often. She took her own plate and stood next to him, scraping it into the trash herself. “I didn’t mean anything by it and you know that,” she huffed, setting her plate on top of his and looking up at him defiantly. “And you  _ were _ the one that brought up going away. You said it’s  _ temporary _ .”

She held her ground, even when he took her cheeks gently between his too-cold hands. He stared down at her for a long moment. “You will be late tonight too, won’t you?”

“Yeah, rehearsal will probably run late and Meg -“

“I’ve been composing,” he repeated, his eyes moving over her face. “I will not be able to pick you up. I’ve had a key made for you. If I give it to you, you need to be reasonable. It is not permission to stay out all night and you need your rest.”

Christine was always skeptical. Every bit of freedom he offered her seemed to have some terrible drawback; she was sure this was no different. It was almost like he was testing her. It made her incredibly nervous and she swallowed hard. “What time do I need to be home?” she asked quietly.

“No later than ten,” he answered, his palms flattening on her cheeks. “I think that is reasonable, don’t you?”

It was. It was uncomfortably reasonable. Erik was never  _ actually  _ reasonable. Her stomach twisted but she nodded anyway.

He sighed and pressed a cold kiss to her forehead. He kissed her on the forehead often; he hadn’t even made an attempt to kiss her lips since she had gone to the concert. He had been oddly quiet. His physical affections had all but vanished.

She thought she probably shouldn’t complain - it was what she wanted, right? That didn’t help her any. It wasn’t his  _ normal _ and she couldn’t help but feel like something terrible was coming.

And later, alone in her bedroom with the small cold metal key clutched tightly in her palm, she found her phone.

_ I’m free after rehearsal tonight, too, if you are. _

xXx

Raoul’s apartment was a mess.

It wasn’t  _ dirty _ . There were no dishes in the sink and she could see the lines in the carpet from a fresh vacuuming - she thought he probably did it when she texted him. It wasn’t dirty but it was messy.

Or maybe she was just too used to Erik and his almost compulsive cleanliness. Because when she looked around, it wasn’t  _ that _ bad. School books were piled on the countertop and there were open notebooks on the table, a half empty glass of water was sitting on a coaster on the coffee table in front of his small couch. It was lived in.

She had never felt more relieved in her life.

“Are you really sure you don’t want to go do something?” Raoul asked, walking in behind her and locking the door. “It’s really not very exciting here - all I’ve got is cable and really shitty WiFi. I could take you to dinner if you’d like.”

“You took me to dinner on Monday,” she reminded him. “And yesterday.”

“Ah, but not today,” he pointed out, grinning at her. “Just because you ate yesterday doesn’t mean you’re not hungry today. Or we could go see a movie… you really don’t have to hang out here with me.”

“I think you’re trying to make me fat,” she complained, smiling so that she could make sure he knew she was joking. “That’s all I want, though. Just to be here with you.”

“I still don’t understand how you were single,” he murmured, moving just a little closer to her.

Christine felt her cheeks flush and she tried to ignore the pit in her stomach, tilting her chin up. “I guess I was just waiting for you,” she said softly.

The sweet smile he gave her never failed to warm her. His warm hand on her cheek was comforting and when he leaned down and kissed her, gently, she thought she might actually be happy just like this for the rest of her life.

As all things did, it ended too soon. Raoul pulled away far sooner than she ever wanted him to.

“But honestly, are you hungry?” he asked, running his fingers over a particularly frizzy bit of her hair to smooth it.

She rolled up on her toes and gave him another quick peck on the lips. “No,” she answered. “Do you have movies or anything? Maybe we could just watch a movie. I’d really like that.”

“No, but I have cable. There’s gotta be something, right?”

In the end Christine thought it probably didn’t matter much. Not about twenty minutes into the movie she would never remember when she pressed her lips against his, not when they slowly shifted until she was caught under him and his warm touch.

His lips did feel just as soft against her throat as she imagined they would. His hand was warm and soft and lacking the calluses that she had grown used to when it slipped under her shirt.

She thought she must have tensed up because he stopped very suddenly, moving back to look at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “If you aren’t ready - I don’t mind. I really don’t. I’ll wait as long as you want. I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you, Christine.”

She couldn’t help the way she smiled. It was sweet and comforting and warm. “I’m ready,” she whispered, recognizing that warm pull from deep in her stomach. “Can we go to your bedroom please?”

xXx

Raoul looked at her like she was crazy when she asked him to let her out on the side of the road a block over from the house. To her relief, he didn’t argue with her. He leaned over, kissed her, and made her promise to text him and tell him that she made it home safe.

There were probably a lot of things that he wondered and never asked her about. He would ask, eventually, she was sure, but it was a relief for the moment.

It was nine forty-five when she unlocked the front door of the house. Erik was still sitting at the piano in half darkness. He looked up, glanced at the stove, then looked back at her.

“You’re early,” he said.

“I’m tired,” she mumbled, hoping that it would be enough for him. She couldn’t deal with it at the moment; she didn’t want to lie to him. She didn’t want to spend any more time in his company than she absolutely had to. Half an hour ago she had been in heaven and she wasn’t sure that she was ready to return to the reality of his Hell.

She wanted to stay. She had even made the mistake of mumbling it to Raoul in the dark, warm and safe wrapped up in his arms. He asked her why she didn’t.

It hurt, redressing herself. It hurt to stare at herself in his smudged bathroom mirror so that she could make sure that there was no visible evidence of what had occurred between them. She pretended that the used condom in the top of the bathroom trash can wasn’t theirs because if she acknowledged what happened any more than she already had she wasn’t sure that she would have left.

That would have been bad for everyone.

“Did you have fun?”

She blinked. She had nearly forgotten where she was. “Yeah,” she answered. “Rehearsal ran really late, though. It took a lot out of me.”

It was a lie and she was pretty sure he knew that it was. The look in his eyes told her that much. She didn’t want to look at him.

She didn’t  _ want _ to feel ashamed about what she had done.

“Come here, kitten,” he said softly.

She made her way to him slowly. Every step she took made her just a little bit more nauseous.

All he did was lean up and kiss her lips.

It was the first time he had kissed her lips in a while.

“You look exhausted,” he conceded. “Go to bed, kitten. I’ll bring you some tea. Perhaps in the morning you’d like to hear what I’ve written - it is for you, after all.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’d like that.”


	19. Chapter 19

The show was a nearly perfect success.

Erik watched from far back in the audience. Perhaps it was foolish but there was an odd sense of pride watching Christine on the stage, even mixed in with only the chorus.

It was where she belonged. The only thing that would have made it better was if she replaced the god-awful girl that had somehow screeched her way into a lead role.

Even he could admit that Christine wasn’t ready for it. One day, he told himself. One day she would take the lead confidently and he would have something to actually be prideful about.

For now, this was enough.

Even better when he looked around and noticed that the boy was surprisingly absent from the theater. Erik had to wonder if she had asked him not to come. It brought him some small bit of comfort, knowing that she had to lie to him just as much as she did to Erik. It was an even greater comfort knowing that he was actually aware of it. He had to wonder what she had told the boy to keep him away.

Whatever it was, it worked, and all the better. Met face-to-face he wasn’t sure what he would do. Strangle him, probably. It would be a distasteful thing for all in attendance and Christine would have no option but to leave that friend she had made behind.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

It wasn’t until afterwards, when she met him out in the lobby, that he realized anything was wrong at all. Her face was bright red and she didn’t quite seem steady - she stumbled and he caught her with two hands on her upper arms.

“Christine, what’s wrong?” he asked, looking at her closely. Her eyes weren’t glazed, her pupils weren’t dilated, there was no indication that she was anything but sober other than the redness in her cheeks and the single stumble.

“Nothing,” she said breathlessly, steadying herself on her feet. “Erik, there’s a cast party. Meg said she would take me if I… if I can go.”

Normally he would contemplate telling her no simply because he didn’t like having her out of his sight. It was in the back of his head; of course it was, it always was, but the redness in her face and the fact that her breath still hadn’t evened out was far more concerning.

“You aren’t okay,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “Come here, you need to sit down.”

“Asthma,” she huffed. “It’ll pass - it’s ok. I’m okay. Erik, please.”

“Perhaps, if it passes,” he murmured. “Breathe, Christine. Where is your inhaler?”

“Bag,” she huffed. “Backstage.”

“Text your friend. Ask her to bring it out here.”

Christine’s fingers were trembling but she found her phone anyway and clicked out a message.

“There, I want you to sit still, kitten,” he said softly, soothingly. “Would water help?”

She shook her head and he leaned back on his heels.

“You did very well tonight, Christine,” he said. “I wanted to tell you that. Just breathe, kitten.”

Her face was going even more red and he looked up just in time to see Meg coming down the hallway. She stared at him for a long minute but her attention quickly shifted as soon as she saw Christine’s face.

“What’s going -“

“Asthma,” Erik answered, snatching Christine’s purse from her hands and rooting through it for her inhaler. He shook it firmly before he handed it to her. “Thank you,” he said belatedly to Meg.

Christine inhaled from it deeply once but when she tried to breathe it was only a gasping sound that came out. It took three attempts to open her airways enough for her to take a solid breath and she slumped back against the bench, seemingly exhausted.

“Are you okay now?” he asked softly, watching her closely.

“Yeah,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and uneven. “I’m okay - I think - Meg, I don’t think I can go tonight.”

It was the first time Erik actually felt bad for denying her something. He was sure that the whole thing was just a cover to spend another few hours with the boy but still - seeing her so exhausted, almost frightened - it made him feel something that he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Are you sure?” he was honestly shocked by his own question.

Christine was, too, judging from the way she blinked at him. “I’m exhausted,” she admitted quietly. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Yeah,” Meg said, shifting awkwardly and taking a step away from Erik. “Everyone’ll miss you but I think they’d get it. It’s no big deal, really. Do you want me to take you home?”

Erik pressed his lips together and he was grateful when Christine answered for him.

“It’s okay. Erik’ll take me home. Don’t worry about it - have fun for me.”

“Right, Erik,” Meg said, eyeing him oddly. “You’re her -“

“Voice teacher,” he answered easily. “I’ll get her home perfectly safe. Thank you - for being so quick. It’s good to know that she has good friends.”

Meg’s brow furrowed. “Yeah…” she said awkwardly. “Text me, okay Christine? Let me know how you’re doing.”

“I will.” Christine’s smile was tired and weak. “Tell me all about the fun I miss out on. I’m counting on it.”

“Next time,” Meg said, her smile just a bit more firm than Christine’s.

“Yeah,” Christine answered. “Next time.”

Erik waited until her friend disappeared around the corner to reach for her and help her up. “Was there anything else you needed to get?” he asked, handing her her purse and taking note of the way her fingers still trembled.

“No, this is everything.”

“Let’s get you home. Too much excitement for one day, I think,” he murmured, taking her arm and leading her toward the car.

 

* * *

  
Erik insisted on recording her.

Christine wasn’t particularly in the mood to argue. She hadn’t had an asthma attack in a while and it seemed to take a lot out of her; she still wasn’t sure if she had properly caught her breath. She was nauseous and dizzy and if he plopped a microphone down on the table in front of her and told her to sing, she didn’t see much point in fighting it.

Erik was odd. It was something that she just accepted.

He wouldn’t let her walk to the kitchen by herself, but he insisted that she sing.

If she had the energy to, she would laugh. But as it was, she had gotten out of bed three times in the night to puke and that was exhausting too. Even more because she tried to hide it from him; she had no idea what he would do if he thought she had the flu and she was reluctant to give any of the freedom that he had granted her suddenly back so easily.

So she sang. She perched her glasses on the tip of her nose and sight read the handwritten music he put in front of her and even though she wasn’t really sure that it was her best, he seemed happy enough about it.

“Why are we doing this?” she asked on the third sheet of scribbled music. Even her glasses didn’t help push the headache away – his handwriting was terrible and she still had to squint to make the squiggles on the page form words.

“Posterity,” he answered flippantly. “Consider it a journal of sorts – a study. A recording from now beside a recording in a few months. I wish we had started it sooner. It’s beautiful, Christine. Would you like to hear it?”

She didn’t. All she wanted to do was lay down and die. He seemed so excited, though. It wasn’t so much, she thought. “Yeah,” she said, forcing herself to smile at him.

If anything, he seemed even more excited. He removed the headphones that almost looked comical on him and handed them to her, waiting until she put them on to press play.

The truth was, she was impressed. She sat up just a little straighter as she listened, staring at the screen of the laptop and the slow progress bar. When it was finished, she slid the headphones from over her ears slowly. “Was that really me?” she whispered.

“Not a single filter,” he answered, looking at her closely. “If you are impressed by that, perhaps I will master it. I think you would enjoy the finished product immensely.”

“… why are we actually doing this?” she asked softly.

He closed the lid of the laptop and took the headphones from her still hands. “You have an astounding talent, Christine,” he said eventually. “I would hate for you to forget that. To forget the music. This, now? You heard it yourself. You are capable of so much more. We are capable of so much more. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah,” she whispered, that sick feeling rolling over in her stomach. “I understand.”

 

* * *

  
Erik wasn’t sure how to fix what they had. He wasn’t sure how to pull her back in, how to re-spark the passionate way that she began with the music.

When he played for her, she would pick at the lint on the blanket she covered her lap with. When he insisted on a lesson, she sighed. She sang, and she sang beautifully, but it was distracted and distant and never quite reached what he knew that she was capable of.

She was pulling away and nothing he tried pulled her back.

So he did the only thing he could.

He recorded her.

He threw himself as thoroughly into his compositions as he could. He crafted them perfectly to her voice. Simple pop ballad covers held very little interest to him; it was his music that he craved to hear from her and as difficult as she was, pulling slowly away, she granted him that small mercy.

He was grateful for it on those nights that he couldn’t find a reason to keep her in. He was glad that he could slip on his headphones, lean his head back against the chair and listen to her voice.

It was calming. It was distracting. That was the greatest mercy of it; the distraction. He could put on the headphones and block out the thought of the boy; he could silence the sickening images of the boy’s hands on her body. He could step out of the reality of what he knew, without a doubt, was happening.

And even though he knew it wouldn’t be, for now it was enough.

 

* * *

 

Christine spent more time with Raoul than she would ever be convinced was safe.

No time spent with him was honestly safe. She knew that. The longer the hours the higher the risk; she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t bring herself to care. She was absolutely, utterly selfish with him and for the first time in her life, she didn’t care.

For a few hours, Christine was just like everyone else. She had never been just like everyone else. She was nineteen, she graduated school, she had a good family and a handsome boyfriend that tried his best to cook for her but always made a complete mess.

She had a boyfriend. She could hold his hand and kiss him in public and maybe she was just a little bit too confident about it all because somewhere deep down, she knew that Erik knew. And maybe that’s why she got so careless.

Because if he already knew he hadn’t done anything about it and maybe, just maybe, all of the threats that she invented in her head were just that; invented, imagined.

She thought maybe if she believed that hard enough it would be true.

Raoul didn’t look at her quite like Erik did. His eyes were warm and admiring, but he didn’t stare at her like she was all that mattered in the world. He had friends that he cared about. He had classes and a life and maybe something about that dampened it just a little bit for Christine. Because she was used to being everything for someone; he was certainly everything for her. Every touch of normal in her life lived in the walls of Raoul’s messy apartment and if she never had to go back to his home she thought maybe she would be okay with it, even if he couldn’t quite look at her with the same intensity that Erik did.

If she didn’t have to go back. What she would give to not have to go back.


	20. Chapter 20

# Chapter 20

“You’re pale.”

Erik had noticed it a while ago; her paleness. Despite her seeming determination to box him out, he found it very difficult to ignore. Supposed hours in the sun and she was still pale as a ghost.

He kept fairly good track of the womanly products beneath her sink; she had never once had to ask him for them. There were some small embarrassments that he attempted to save both of them from; he had plenty of time to peek in the cabinet the more she pulled away from him. The problem was, this month’s box sat untouched and it was far past due. Christine was regular. It was one of the only truly reliable things that he knew about her.

“I am?” she murmured, barely even looking at him. It was a new habit of hers; avoiding eye contact as thoroughly as she possibly could. She would peek at him from the corner of her eye while pretending to be focused on something else entirely.

It was absolutely infuriating. He was sure she intended it to be. That was exactly why he chose to ignore it as completely as he could.

“Have you been feeling alright, Christine?” He looked at her closely and she looked down at her lap, playing with the tassel on the pillow she was holding.

“I’ve been… a little bit nauseous,” she mumbled.

“For how long?”

Christine shrugged, rubbing the strings nervously between her fingers. “A little while.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, moving closer.

She looked up so suddenly that he actually stopped in his tracks. “You would keep me here,” she said, her voice steady and accusatory. “If I’m sick, you’ll keep me here. No more rehearsal, no more Meg. Just this house and these stupid walls. You’ll take everything away.”

“I don’t think you’re sick,” he answered, staying right where he was.

Something in her changed; deflated was the only word he could find to explain the way she looked. “You always think something is wrong with me,” she whispered.

“I don’t think anything is wrong with you, kitten,” he said softly, kneeling in front of her on the rug; he didn’t touch her. He didn’t lean over her or put his hand on the cushion next to her knee. He kept a careful distance between them. “This will be embarrassing. When was your last period?”

Her face went blank. If he thought she was pale before, he had been wrong. The color drained from her cheeks so suddenly that he questioned whether it had been there at all.

He waited a moment longer but she made no move to respond; she sat still as a statue, staring at him with unsettlingly empty eyes. “I’d like you to take a pregnancy test,” he said as softly as he could manage. “Just so that we can rule it out.”

“Pregnant.” Her lips were the only thing that moved, just barely, and the word was nothing more than a huff of air from between them.

“We don’t know,” he reassured her. “I don’t think anything is wrong with you, kitten. You could very well just be getting sick. You’ve said yourself that you get sick easily. We just need to rule it out.”

“Sick,” she half-laughed, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “I’m always sick - just sick. That could be it. I haven’t - haven’t been sick in a while.”

He held her wrists gently, pulling them away from her eyes. He could see the tears trembling there. She tried to blink them back but they flowed over instead. “You could be sick,” he said. “But I need you to take a test for me. Will you do that, kitten? Please?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, nodding slowly. “Because I’m just sick and that’s all so why - why wouldn’t I?”

He had no idea how to comfort her. Even music had seemed to lose its appeal. What he wanted to do was gather her into his arms; he wasn’t an idiot. He was more than aware of the fact that she could hardly stand his touch. So instead he knelt there, ran his thumbs gently over the insides of her trembling wrists and watched her tears fall.

———

Christine couldn’t look at it.

Erik told her that it would only take five minutes but they were the longest five minutes of her life and at the end of them she couldn’t even look at the display on the test. She thought she was going to vomit.

She held it, face down, and carried it out into the living room. He was lurking somewhere by the kitchen counter and for a long moment all he did was look at her.

“What does it say?” he asked eventually.

He didn’t move toward her and she ran her finger over the protective pink cap she had put back on the end of it. “I can’t look,” she whispered. “Erik, I can’t - I need you to look. Please.”

He moved slowly toward her and when he was close enough he reached out, grasping the plastic thing between his thumb and forefinger. “You have to let go, kitten.”

So she did, and she was suddenly freezing. She wrapped her arms around herself and watched him turn it over and stare at it; if she hoped he would give any indication, her hopes were shattered. There was nothing to read in his blank mask, his lips didn’t press together, his shoulders didn’t tense or droop. He just… looked.

“It’s positive, isn’t it?” she breathed.

He blinked and glanced at her. “Would you like to see it?”

She shook her head and rubbed at her bare arms. The air kicked on and she wondered if he was actually trying to torture her.

“Sometimes there can be false positives,” he sighed. “If you’d like, I can get you another. A few more.”

Christine couldn’t even shake her head. If she was completely honest, the thought had crossed her mind. She was late once before, when she had been in the group home. It had been such an adjustment; she hadn’t been eating or sleeping right, she had been so stressed out. She thought maybe if she ignored the suspicion, if she packed it away with all of the other things she didn’t think about, it would go away on its own.

Only it didn’t. He said positive and all she could do was press her hand against that space just below her belly button.

Christine had always wanted a family. It was something she had never really had; no siblings, no mother, her father was gone so suddenly. She wanted a family. A mother, a father, a little house with a few kids. She was nauseous.

Something in her was screaming. _Raoul_. It could be Raoul’s. There was no truth behind the thought as much as she wanted to believe it; they were always safe. He insisted on it. She was left standing there, one hand on her stomach staring at exactly who she knew was the father. His long fingers wrapped around the test, his terrible yellow eyes stared at her with false sympathy. He didn’t even have to touch her; the chill of his skin was burned into her memory.

“Christine,” he said softly. “Tell me what you need. Another test? Music? Ice cream? You have to say something, kitten.”

“I’m going to puke,” she breathed. She hardly recognized her own voice; it was rough and ragged and shaky.

He moved at that; his hand rested between her shoulder blades and he led her toward her bathroom.

He had barely lifted the lid of the toilet for her when it came; she leaned over it, holding the seat with shaking fingers. His cool fingers brushed against her temples when he pulled her hair back and it was honestly a little soothing. He held it back with one hand and rubbed her back slowly.

She rested her forehead against the lid and closed her eyes, trying to focus on how soothing the touch was instead of who it was.

“It’s not… anything I thought about,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, Christine. I didn’t even realize - it will be okay, though. You know that. You won’t be doing it alone.”

“Didn’t realize?” she asked shakily.

“I didn’t know that _I_ was capable, Christine. If you saw - if you saw you would understand. I never thought that I could…” he broke off with a sigh. “I was wrong, apparently. Sit up, kitten. I’m going to flush.”

So she did. She rubbed at the tears that should have been there but weren’t and he leaned around her, flushing the toilet and sitting back.

“What do you want, Christine? Right now. What do you need? What will help?”

She took a breath through her nose. “… I want to be alone,” she admitted eventually.

His hand moved away from her back. “Do you want me to take the test with me?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Please… I just want to be alone,” she breathed.

When the door closed she reached blindly up to the counter, searching for the test.

He left it face down on the edge and she held it for a long moment before she could work up the nerve to turn it over in her hands and look at the little pink plus sign in the display.

———

Erik’s head was reeling. Suspecting was one thing. Seeing the test with his own eyes was another entirely.

He honestly hadn’t considered the fact that he could father a child. When he looked at himself in the mirror, it hardly seemed like a thought worth considering. It ran far past his face.

He had looked into quite a few different genetic defects and they all had one thing in common; infertility. He never would have thought that _he_ , of all people, was the exception to the rule.

It seemed a weak defense but it was the honest truth.

When he really thought about it, it might make a bit of sense. He had never been able to pin down what exactly his malady was. Pieces of this and pieces of that, pushed together like a misshapen jigsaw puzzle, could explain what stared back at him from the mirror but nothing fit quite completely. Nothing that was actually survivable, at least.

He might have considered it genius if he had actually thought of it; Christine had been abandoned by a parent at birth and she suffered for it. He knew, without a doubt, that she would never do it to her own child. It was the perfect entrapment; she didn’t need love to feel some sense of duty.

_If it’s even yours._

It was a bit of a sickening thought but it was one he couldn’t push out of his head. It seemed odd that just when she began spending all of her time with the boy that it happened.

They had been together, in the physical sense, for months. If anything, Erik had backed off. It was terribly convenient and suddenly he felt just as sick as Christine.

What if it wasn’t? What if…

xXx

The knock on his bedroom door wasn’t entirely unexpected; if anything, he hoped for it. He reached over to his bedside table and slipped his mask on. He was half grateful that she said she preferred it. He did too. It didn’t irritate his skin quite as much as the adhesive and latex.

“Come in, kitten,” he said when he was sure it was in place.

She opened the door and stood just inside of the frame. The light in the hallway was on; she always left it on, and the way it silhouetted her made it nearly impossible to see her face.

He propped himself up on his elbows. “Christine, you can come in. If you want to. I won’t make you talk.”

She stepped inside the door and closed it slowly. The click of the latch was quiet and she stood there, hand against the door, for a long moment. He held himself up on his elbows, watching her. Eventually she moved, climbing up into the bed on her knees and looking at him.

He lifted the edge of his sheets and, to his surprise, she slipped under them easily. When he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, burying his dry lips in her hair, she didn’t even tense.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “You aren’t doing it alone - never alone. Everything is going to be okay.”

He felt her fingers clutching at his shirt.

He pulled her closer, combing through her curls with his fingers. “There are things about the world that you don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Never will, if I can help it. I know I haven’t been the… best… but all I’ve ever honestly wanted was to protect you. I love you and _that_ is not a lie. I wouldn’t have done this to you purposefully, Christine. But it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It isn’t the end of the world. People have unplanned children all the time.”

“I’m s’posed to sing,” she mumbled, her fingers still twisted tightly in his shirt.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “This doesn’t change that - it’d be a sin to squander your voice. So it’s three instead of two. Christine, you are so young. Think about it. By the time this baby graduates you’ll still have a whole lifetime ahead of you - it isn’t the end, kitten. It really isn’t.”

“You’re really good at this,” she whispered.

“At what?”

“Talking,” she mumbled. “I’m still… scared, though. I always wanted… but not like this. I would be married and maybe we’d have a dog and… I don’t know. I don’t know what I wanted. That’s what my dad would have wanted.”

“Then marry me,” he said softly, tracing the tips of his fingers against the back of her neck. She was silent and he sighed, pressing a kiss into her hair.

“I never had a mom,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to be one.”

For the first time, Erik was genuinely honest. He traced her jaw slowly with the tip of his finger. “I never knew my father,” he said softly. “My mother was… a poor excuse for one. We will learn it together, kitten. There is nothing to be afraid of. We have months to learn anyway. For now - for now all we can do is take care of you and make sure you get good rest, hm?”

She nodded against his chest and all he could do was comb his fingers through her hair, hoping that it soothed her.


	21. Chapter 21

# Chapter 21

Erik’s sleep clothes were rumpled and his hair was oddly messy.

Christine wasn’t sure she had ever seen him that way. He never wore his sleep clothes out of bed, not as far back as she could remember, and she wondered if he slept just as badly as she did. It wasn’t that she had never seen him in them – she certainly had. He wore them to her bed and on those very rare nights when she was just a bit too lonely and climbed into bed with him he was obviously already in them, but she had never seen it in broad daylight.

She sat at the dining room table and stared out the patio door. She couldn’t stop touching her stomach – it was like her hand had found a permanent place there, pressed against that space just below her belly button like something was going to suddenly change now that she knew and she was afraid she would miss it.

“I tried to keep up with the flowerbeds,” he said, his voice soft while he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’m sure I’m not as good at it as you were – I was thinking about hiring someone. I guess I might have to in a few months anyway.”

The flowerbeds had been her escape when she had no escape. She spent hours weeding them just for the quiet. She didn’t realize he thought she did it for fun until that moment. She wondered how much else he misinterpreted. “I think it’ll be a boy,” she said, still staring blankly through the window.

He sipped at his coffee and she heard the click of his mug on the countertop. “Do you want a boy?”

Christine just shrugged. “I always wanted a little girl, like me. Or maybe more like Samantha – she was a good girl. I miss her a lot. I think it’ll be a boy, though.”

“Christine,” he said softly. “Are you home now?”

She blinked and looked toward him. “What?”

He made his way to her, abandoning his steaming cup of coffee on the counter. The chair scraped against the floor when he pulled it out and he sat in it, leaning forward so that their knees touched. “Are you home now?”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

He reached forward and took her wrists. It seemed like he was the only one that could pull her hand away from its new cemented place. “I know what you’ve been doing,” he said softly. “I know about… more than I want to – look at me, kitten.”

She looked down at the table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It wasn’t believable. She could feel the tremble in her voice.

He only sighed and hooked one finger under her chin, turning her face back toward him. “I forgive you, kitten,” he said slowly. “Because I love you. I don’t need you to admit it. I forgive you if you’re home now.”

_Raoul._

She knew exactly what he was talking about and she tried really hard to push it out of her head. The first thought she had was that she could hide it from him, for a few months at least. She could pretend nothing was happening, she could lie to him and squeeze out every last bit of normal that she could.

Could she? In her head she had built a fantasy; she had been moving toward something with Raoul. One morning she would wake up next to him. She would wear his ring, have his children.

The fantasy melted away when she stared at the little pink plus sign the night before.

“Christine.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m home, Erik.”

He kissed the inside of her wrist gently and Christine’s stomach twisted.

———

It looked like a tadpole.

He stared at the grainy pictures that she had come waltzing out of the doctor’s office with.

There was hardly anything human in it. It was almost animal. There was something at least a little relatable in it.

Erik hadn’t known how many doctors appointments the things required. Women had been giving birth for centuries with very little medical intervention.

The first appointment was a blood test to confirm it. Christine walked out with a bottle of vitamins and a recommendation of ginger. They stopped on the way home. It didn’t help much at all; her nausea was still what he would consider severe but the doctors didn’t seem particularly concerned by it.

The second appointment she came out with grainy pictures and a dreamy look on her face.

“I wish you could’ve heard it,” she said in the quiet of the car. “It’s little heart is beating so fast – it’s like a hummingbird! I was worried it was too fast but the ultrasound lady said it’s normal – that stuff they put on my belly was so cold. I think I need a bath now. It’s sticky and weird.”

There had been a long moment of peace between them. Sometimes, Christine would even smile at him. It was brief but it was there. He had read the messages between her and the boy; a text message breakup and no response to the questions he sent her. It was all calming in its own way.

As much as he questioned it, she seemed thoroughly convinced that the baby was his. Either that or she wasn’t sure that the boy would accept it. Whichever it was, she had come home and he had grown some sort of fondness for the thing invading her womb, simply for bringing her back to him.

Now, staring at the grainy black and white pictures of the fetus, sitting at the counter and sipping his coffee, he wasn’t so sure what he felt toward it.

Up until now it had only been an idea. It was a thought, a concept. Now it was real. He was staring at the photographic proof and she had very clearly told him that she listened to its heart beat.

Christine was sleeping in his bed. It was a bit of a test period; he had offered it to her full time when she expressed concern over the fact that there were only two bedrooms. The baby would have hers and they would share a room.

Like a normal couple.

Christine made him feel something. He loved her. Maybe he didn’t. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was but it was something that he had never felt before.

He didn’t feel it as he stared at the photographs. He felt oddly detached. There was no excitement or dread; it just existed along with the near certainty that it wasn’t anything of his. It couldn’t be. No matter how many times he turned it over in his mind he couldn’t make it fit.

———

Christine was pretty sure she grimaced when she tasted a spoonful of the white pudding and stared at it.

“What, kitten?”

“It tastes funny,” she complained, frowning as she stirred her spoon in it.

“Funny how?” he asked, looking at her closely. “Is it upsetting your stomach?”

She took another small spoonful and pressed it to the roof of her mouth, running her tongue against it. “It’s gritty,” she decided.

“Protein powder,” he explained, running his cold palm over her hair to smooth it. “We have to get something more than pudding in you – do you want me to add more? It might mix a little better.”

“No,” she huffed. “I just want a slice of pizza.”

“We tried that last night,” he reminded her patiently. “If you can keep the pudding down we can try something more later, kitten.”

She took another bite and sank back against his uncomfortable side. “I feel sick all the time. I don’t think I’m supposed to.”

He sighed and pressed his dry lips to her temple, slowly wrapping his arm around her and tracing his thumb soothingly against it. “Nausea is common in the first trimester. Everything I have read indicates that it will get a little better. Have you thought of any more names, kitten?”

She shook her head and took another bite of her pudding.

In truth, things hadn’t been as terrible as she expected them to be in her head. He was nice and gentle and he really _was_ taking care of her. Sometimes she couldn’t remember why she wanted to be away from him so badly. It was easy, when the option was taken from her, to fall into him.

He would kiss her temple and rub her back and tuck her into bed at night. She thought that something terrible was coming, _must be_ , but each night he only seemed a little kinder and it was all so confusing.

When he was like this, gentle and kind, it was easy to ignore the text messages Raoul sent her. It was easy to convince herself that she had made the right choice. It was easy to believe that, just like Erik promised her, everything _would_ be okay.

It was only a few hours later that he brought her a second cup of pudding. It was chocolate this time. “To mix it up,” he said.

It was around thirty minutes after that that the cramping started. Erik asked her if she was okay - he must have seen it on her face - but all she could do was get up and go into her bathroom.

It was like the worst period cramp she had ever had magnified by ten. She doubled over the sink, clutching the edges of the counter, for a long time trying to catch her breath.

She wasn’t honestly sure how long she was in there before he came and knocked on the door. By the time he did she was huddled on the cold tile of the floor, pushed back in the corner where the bathtub met the wall.

He knocked and waited a moment. “Kitten, are you okay?”

She opened her mouth to respond and just as she did it hit again and any words she meant to say dissolved in a pained huff.

“Christine, I’m coming in,” he warned, hesitating just a moment like he was waiting for her to argue before he pushed the door open.

He stared at her for a long moment while she tried to form some kind of words but none would come.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, crouching down in front of her.

“ _Hurts_ ,” she forced out between her clenched teeth.

“What does?”

She gestured helplessly to her stomach.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Let’s run a hot bath for you, it might help soothe it. Like the heating pad.”

They were both quiet as the water ran. He stared at the steam and she spent the silence trying to blink back her tears. She didn’t even try to fight him when he helped her undress herself.

It didn’t help much. Her skin quickly changed to a pinkish color but the pain hit just as hard as it had sitting on the floor.

He smoothed her damp hair with his palm. “I’ll bring you something for the pain, kitten. I need you to try to relax. Can you do that?”

She nodded and when he moved away, for the first time, she actually wanted him to come back. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the edge of the tub, trying her best to stave off the terrible cramping pain.

When he came back he sighed, almost like he just wanted her to be aware that he was there. He held a syringe in his hand. It was hardly full and she blinked at it.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Something that will stop the pain,” he answered. “Give me your foot, kitten.”

“Will it hurt the baby?”

He blinked, paused for a moment and then shook his head. “No. Your foot, please Christine.”

Another surge hit her and she wasn’t sure that she could stand it for a moment longer. She lifted her foot and the water sloshed violently.

He held her foot gently in his palm and ran his thumb firmly between her big toe and the one next to it. “There you go,” he said gently. “I want you to close your eyes, kitten. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”

She obeyed him, letting her eyes close while he talked to her soothingly. The prick of the needle wasn’t half as bad as she expected and when it was done, she heard the click of the plastic needle against the floor and he rubbed her foot carefully.

“There you are,” he murmured. “Just let yourself relax, kitten. I know it’s hard but you’re doing a good job.”

She could taste something odd, almost sweet. It was like the aftertaste of a foreign candy. When the blackness started to creep in, she made no attempt to fight it.

xXx

The first thing Christine heard was the music. It was soft and sad and she lay there for a minute longer, her eyes pressed closed. She still felt it, that terrible cramping, but it was dull now, more of an ache than the breathtaking pain it had been.

It took her a long moment to move and an even longer one to realize that she wasn’t in her own bed. She was in his. The bedroom door was closed but the bathroom door was cracked open and the light was on. She wasn’t sure if she was appreciative of the fact that he had changed her into her pajamas or not. Something about it was embarrassing - something else reminded her that the last thing she remembered was him staring at her over the edge of the bathtub and maybe she should appreciate that he dressed her at all.

When she swung her feet over the edge of the bed she had to pause. She was dizzy and weak and she thought she might fall over if she stood up. Eventually she decided to try it. She didn’t fall over but she was shaky.

She hated using his bathroom. One of those terrible rubbery masks was always out on the countertop and everything about it was unsettling. If she thought she could have made it to her own bathroom she would have tried.

The mask was the least unsettling thing in the room when she pulled her pants down and looked down.

Red. Bright red. It was all she could see. It was staining her thighs. It took her a long moment to realize that he _had_ put a pad on her. It helped very little.

Christine felt her sob more than she heard it and the music stopped along with it.

She could hear his footsteps coming and when her legs gave out on her, she let them. She collapsed onto the cold tile and stared at the mess.

He didn’t knock. She hardly even noticed enough to feel violated.

He was silent when he saw her. His lips were pressed into a thin line and he simply leaned over her, turning on the faucet in the bath tub and reaching for a wash cloth.

“Erik, I - I -“

“Shush,” he said softly, wringing out the washcloth and kneeling on the tile in front of her. “Just breathe, kitten. You’re going to give yourself another asthma attack.”

She watched in a detached sort of way when he nudged her thighs apart with his free hand and wiped at the blood there. She could feel her lip quivering and she swallowed her sobs as best as she could. “I don’t understand,” she whispered shakily.

He looked up at her. He stared into her eyes and then he shook his head just the slightest bit, his shoulders dropping. “You lost the baby, Christine.” It was the most solid answer he had given to any question she had ever asked him.

She felt the tears welling in her eyes and he looked away, back down at her thighs. He worked slowly, like he was just trying to avoid looking at her.

“I don’t understand,” she argued breathlessly. “You didn’t - didn’t hear it. His heart, it was so strong, the doctor said -“

“I know, kitten.” His voice was soft and soothing again. “I don’t understand either, Christine. It just - it happens sometimes with no rhyme or reason.”

She wiped at her eyes with her shaky hand and tried to swallow around the knot in her throat. “Was it a boy?” she whispered.

He froze for a long moment, pushing the warm washcloth against her leg. The breath he took was slow and then he seemed to come back to life, wiping at the blood. “It was too small to tell,” he answered quietly. When he looked at her something passed through his eyes just before he forced a sad smile. “If you think it was a boy, it was a boy and it’s okay to cry, Christine.”

She sniffed twice and leaned back against the ledge of the bathtub. “Can I see him?”

“No,” he answered quietly. “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea, kitten, but if you feel up to it in the morning I will show you where he’s buried. You can make any more permanent marking for him that you’d like.”

She was relieved at his answer. She wasn’t sure if she should be. It just seemed like it was the sort of thing people asked when things like this happened. “You buried him?” she whispered.

He nodded slowly. “Of course I did. It was our baby… he deserved something halfway proper.”

“You didn’t just -“

“He fit in a ring box,” he said, cutting her off. She was grateful that he didn’t let her finish her question. “It’s lined with satin and I filled it with cotton balls - he would be very comfortable there, Christine… I’m going to bring you something clean to change into. Are you still in pain?”

She closed her eyes and she thought about it. The needle prick hadn’t hurt a bit; the euphoria afterwords wiped away all of her pain. Her dreams had been pleasant and made no sense; she nodded slowly. “A little bit,” she whispered.

“Wait here, kitten. Go ahead and use the restroom if you need to.”

So she did. She used the toilet and tried to ignore the blood, she washed her hands in hot water and when he came back he knocked and actually waited to be invited in.

He helped her to redress herself and then he paused, his fingertips ghosting over her cheek. “I will give you more but you have to stay with me,” he said softly.

She nodded. It made no difference to her, not really. The drug had knocked her out the first time and she knew it would the second time too. If she was honest, she didn’t really want to be alone anyway, even if her only option was him.

“Then lets get you back to bed, kitten.”

She let him help her even though she didn’t really need help and when he told her to sit _right_ where she was she obeyed him, pulling her feet up on the edge of the bed and hugging her knees when he disappeared back into the bathroom.

When he came back it was with a syringe and he knelt on the floor in front of her. “Your other foot, kitten,” he murmured when she held the same one out to him. She switched feet and this time she watched him. She watched the needle disappear between her toes, she felt the pinch when he pushed on the plunger. He rubbed her foot just like he had the first time, looking up at her carefully. “I still want you to marry me,” he said eventually.

Everything was quiet. It was so quiet that she could hear her blood rushing against her eardrums; she tasted that odd sweet taste again and she felt lightheaded. She nodded slowly and he released her foot, moving and guiding her down against what had become her pillow.

“Good,” he said softly. His cold lips felt so odd against her forehead; she could feel every crease in them, every imperfection. “Go to sleep, kitten. I’m right here.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for... triggers. Chapter is dark. That’s all I can say.

Erik brushed her hair back and sighed, staring at her still face resting against his too-thin chest.

He wouldn’t sleep. He knew that he wouldn’t. He was too busy monitoring her breathing, too busy making sure that her face was so still because she was asleep and not because her heart had stopped.

She would feel ill in the morning. Terribly ill. He hadn’t wanted to dose her a second time - the sedative was hard enough on her. Her poor body had been through remarkable trauma in the course of a few hours and it was absolutely all his fault.

That was what he reminded himself as he pressed his fingers against the pulse in her throat and counted the beats he felt in his head. That it was his fault.

There was a heavy regret lingering that he hadn’t expected to feel at all. One would think that it would come when he saw the little blob that may have grown into a child but it came long before that. It came as she scraped her spoon against the bottom of the first small cup of pudding. It was too late at that point, though he did mull it over in his head.

He had done a decent amount of research on the expensive set of pills. The first to kill it, the second to expel it. He wondered, in the moment, if it could be stopped in the center, if perhaps he just flushed the second pill she would be none the wiser and everything would go on just as it had been.

Then he visited the bathroom, stripped off his mask and looked at his own face. At best he could hope for some minor birth defects; at worst she would suffer an infection and have to undergo an even more traumatic experience. So he ground the second pill and mixed it in the pudding with half a scoop of protein powder just like he had the first.

When she woke, it was slowly. She rubbed at her eyes and yawned loudly, then she turned away from him and burrowed into her pillow.

“My stomach hurts,” she mumbled, the words half lost in the fluffy pillow.

He dared to let his hand slide toward her under the sheets and he rubbed her back gently with the heel of his palm. “Are you cold, kitten?”

She was trembling. “A little bit.”

“The medication,” he said slowly. “If it gets worse then tell me. Just a little bit more should help.”

She sniffed and pressed her face further into her pillow. “I don’t want to go back to sleep,” she complained.

“It won’t put you back to sleep,” he promised, settling himself on his elbow beside her. “Just try to give it another hour or so, kitten.”

* * *

The few weeks passed in, quite literally, a blur for Christine. She was hardly aware of anything around her - barely cognizant of Erik in front of her.

He sang and at some point, she wondered if she had actually died and she was listening to an angel. Then he would jostle her, touch her arm and gently shake her back to life. He made her sing, too, but she wasn’t sure whether she was actually making the sound she heard or not.

It was all a euphoric blur. She had never been so delighted by absolutely nothing. When the bleeding stopped she didn’t even notice - it had never been. Not in this wonderful place that Erik took her to with the prick of his needle.

Here, in this place, his cold touch was more fascinating than it was unsettling. She had spent at least an hour holding his hand between hers and staring at it, trying to understand the phenomenon. He didn’t seem to mind it at all - just brushed her hair out of her eyes for her with his free hand and murmured words that she didn’t understand but she nodded to anyway.

She only wore her glasses when he reminded her. He laid out clothes for her and she wore them without question; physical sensations were ten times more intense and when he _did_ touch her, it was gentle and guiding. Everything about it was overwhelming.

He was patient and gentle and she couldn’t quite remember why she had been unhappy at all.

“Kitten,” he whispered to her late one night, while her head was still positively spinning from the last sharp pinch of the needle.

It was late. She only knew because it was dark outside. She rarely knew the actual time anymore; it hardly seemed to matter. “Hmm?”

“Do you know what today is?” he asked, running his fingers slowly through her hair. Christine shivered at his touch.

“No,” she answered, the word a mumble against his chest. She wasn’t sure what day of the week it was, let alone the date or any significance it might have held. In all honesty, she didn’t really care. She didn’t care about much these days. It was freeing in its own way.

“Your birthday is coming. It’s only a few days away,” he said, curling closer to her. “I have a surprise for you. Will you let me take you somewhere, Christine?”

“Mhm,” she answered, her eyes slipping closed. She couldn’t help it. The warm pull of the drug was too strong for her to fight against it. She never tried to fight against it. She was happy there, safe and warm, wrapped in music. She had never been so content, so weightless and free.

“Good,” he said, humming into her hair and running his cool hand over her bare arm. “I can’t wait, kitten.”

XXX

The dress was pretty. It was light and comfortable and white. The hem hung just over her knee. Nothing about the pretty sundress made her suspicious. Nothing about much of anything made her suspicious, not when he had only dosed her a few minutes before. She meant to ask him why he insisted on using that space between her toes - it was more painful than she thought it needed to be - but by the time she saw him again she always forgot to ask.

“It will only take a few hours, kitten,” he said, offering his arm to her. She took it. She took it often, now. She didn’t trust her own feet as much as she did before. He happily let her practically hang on him - he all but encouraged it.  
She dozed in the car, her head against the window. She didn’t ask where they were going - she thought that  
he was probably taking her to dinner like he had for her last birthday. Maybe that was their tradition now. She didn’t mind it so much. The thought of having a tradition was almost comforting. Her and her dad had a lot of traditions, like opening a present the night before Christmas and having pasta every Friday.

When Erik did wake her, with a kiss to her temple and a mumbled “wake up, kitten,” she found herself staring up at a plain brick building. He reached over her to shuffle through the glove box and then asked her if she was ready. She followed him inside, clutching his arm nervously. “What are we doing?” she asked, her voice low and nearly trembling.

“I just need you to sign a few things, kitten,” he said softly. “It will take an hour at most. Then I can take you to dinner, if you’d like.”

“For what?”

“What?” he asked, pausing.

“Sign some things for what?” she clarified, looking around herself. She looked at the men in suits and the big metal detectors. Christine had never been in a courthouse before but she read the sign outside and she knew they were in one now.

He turned toward her and rubbed his cold thumb soothingly against her knuckles. “I have made you happy  
these past few weeks, haven’t I?” He waited for her slow nod before his terrible rubbery lips turned up in a sad smile. “And I have done what is best for you. Even you know that, deep down. You’re going to marry me, Christine. If you decide you want a ceremony later I will gladly give it to you, but we will take care of the legalities today. You agreed to it, kitten. You know it is the right thing.”

All she could do was clutch his arm a little tighter. “I’m seventeen,” she whispered.

“Not according to this,” he answered, holding up the papers he had dug out of the glove box. “It’s just a signature, Christine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

She was dizzy. At least, that’s what she would tell herself later. That she was dizzy and it was the drug that made her hold onto his arm and follow him into the courthouse, that if she had a clear head she wouldn’t have been stupid enough to sit there silently while he spoke with the woman sitting behind the desk.

That she would have spoken up instead of sitting frozen when he smoothed his hand over her hair, kissed her temple and sat in the cold, cheap plastic chair beside her. “Just two witnesses, kitten. It’s all we’re waiting on and then we’ll be out of here, I promise. What do you want for dinner?”

“I’m not hungry,” she mumbled, pulling at the hem of her skirt and staring at it so that she didn’t have to look at him. She could feel a headache setting in - it was usually a sign that she was due for her next dose but she thought that _couldn’t_ be it. He had _just_ given her one. It hadn’t ever been that quick before.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded numbly.

He rubbed her back gently and she could feel his eyes on her - it was a heavy, unnerving feeling.

Christine didn’t recognize the man and woman that met them in the clinic-like lobby. Erik told her that they didn’t speak English but she thought he was probably lying. They spoke English perfectly fine when the clerk talked to them.

The birth certificate he smoothed out on the countertop for her was uncomfortably passable. “Christine Elizabeth Dane.” It was a clever choice, to only change one letter of her last name. Even if she used her normal signature it would be passable. The birthdate on it was the same as her normal one; the only difference was that it was set for three years before she was born. It was the identity he had spoken to her when she auditioned for the musical. She was suddenly nauseous.

She signed the paper quickly and dropped the pen like it burned her. She had no idea what was happening around her - her head was pounding, her heart was racing, she was dizzy and nauseous and when he caught her hand and slid a ring onto her finger she couldn’t even see it through her blurred vision.

When he kissed her, she let him, her lips unmoving and dead against their rubber, and when she stumbled, he caught her easily, almost like he had only been waiting for it.

* * *

She was gorgeous.

Stunning.

More beautiful than any bride he ever imagined for himself.

She hadn’t noticed the slight pinch when he caught her wrist in the atrium of the courthouse. She hadn’t resisted him in the slightest. She had sat patiently, if not just a bit confused, on the bench in the atrium when he slipped into the bathroom to dispose of the needle in the sharps container before they made their way through the large metal detectors.

She was a perfect, sweet, beautiful girl, even with her reddened cheeks and elevated heart rate.

The white piece of paper meant nothing to him but it would mean everything to her; she was a good girl that was faithful to a fault.

She was dazed and only half-aware in the drive home. He wanted nothing more than to drag her to his bed in her pretty white dress. It wasn’t traditional, but it was enough.

Instead he occupied himself with running his thumb along the inside of her thigh, pushing her skirt up only a few inches. She was _rightfully_ his, after all. She only sighed sweetly at his invasive touch, her head lulling slightly as she struggled to hold it up.

It didn’t matter, anyway. She had him to take care of her now.

* * *

He was kissing her and all she could do was wrap her arms around his shoulders. Not to pull him closer - no, only to hold herself steady.

Christine hadn’t eaten a bite of food all day. She was subsisting entirely off of the pretty liquid that he filled the needle with. When she closed her eyes and let her head fall back into his palm, she realized that she wasn’t honestly sure when the last time she ate had been.

Her head fell to the side when he brushed her hair off of her shoulder but he didn’t seem to care - his lips followed the curve of her throat and his hand tightened in her hair, holding her exactly where he wanted.

“I can’t breathe,” she managed to say. She tried to tighten her grasp of his shirt but it seemed like an impossible task - it was almost like her body had taken all control from her, like she had been laying on her hands for too long. The tips of her fingers were numb and tingling and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t actually grip him.

His warm breath was a huff against her skin and she felt him press his forehead against her throat. “Yes you can, kitten.” His voice was breathy and strained.

She tried to shake her head and she thought she must have at least halfway accomplished it because he pulled back just a little, one hand on her waist and the other still tangled in her hair.

“Okay,” he sighed, looking over her carefully. He pressed the rubber lips to her forehead one more time before he moved, wrapping his arm around her waist and practically dragging her into his bedroom. She tried to keep up, she really did, but all she honestly managed to do was trip over her own feet and catch onto his shirt even though he never let her fall. “Come on, kitten,” he said, helping her onto the mattress. “Just lay down and close your eyes. I’ll get you some water - that should help, at least a little. Do you think you’re having an asthma attack?”

“I don’t know,” she huffed.

He wiped at the tears she didn’t know she was crying with his cold thumb. “It’s alright, Christine. Just try to breathe. You know that I won’t let anything happen to you. Do you remember where your inhaler is?” She shook her head and he just wiped his thumb under her other eye. “That’s alright. I’ll find it.”

“I can’t breathe,” she gasped again, honestly beginning to panic.

“Close your eyes, kitten.” His voice was calm and soothing and she couldn’t do anything but obey him.

When his hand pressed against her stomach, just below her ribcage, she actually jumped a little bit.

“You remember our first lessons,” he said softly. “I know that you do. Breathe, Christine. I want you to feel it right here, right where my hand is.”

So she did. She concentrated on his hand, focusing everything in on exactly where his cold hand was pressed against her.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice still just as soft “See? You’re just fine, kitten. That was perfect.”

“I’m scared.” she whispered. It was true. She felt that same anxious roil deep in her stomach that she had a few months earlier when he would stand at her bedroom door and stare at her in the middle of the night.

“Keep your eyes shut, kitten,” he said softly. “You don’t need to be afraid - I’m right here and I will never let anything happen to you. Just keep your eyes closed and breathe. It will pass before you even know it.”

Christine felt like she was spinning but she followed his direction. When she opened her eyes again, she realized that she had fallen asleep. Her head was pounding, her stomach was twisting, and Erik was leaning over the edge staring at her.

“You’re sweating.” he pointed out.

If she had the energy to, she might have pushed him. “I don’t feel good,” she complained.

“Can you breathe?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled, “I just- “

“I’ll fix it,” he said.

Before she could get another word in he was flipping the sheets back from her feet and was holding one foot with his ungodly cold hand. It was these moments, the moments in between the wavering world that had become her reality, that there was a loose memory of why she would fight against him. The ring on her finger caught against the sheets when she pushed herself up.

“Stop!” she said, trying to tug her foot away from his grasp when she caught sight of the needle in his free hand. All she wanted was a glass of water - her mouth was dry, her head was pounding, and she could feel herself trembling.

“Stop?” he asked, looking up at her. His grip on her foot only tightened and he pulled it a bit closer to himself, holding her eye. “Would you prefer that I simply let you suffer?”

“What are you doing to me?” she whispered, tugging the sheets up between her fingers.

“To you?” he asked, his eyes returning to her foot. “I’m making it better, kitten. That’s all. You’ve been so happy. Just relax.”

Christine’s breath caught when she felt the familiar sharp prick between her toes. She made one last-ditch effort to pull her foot from his grasp but it was useless - physically, he was stronger than her even on his worst and her best day. The only comfort she took from it was that she knew what was coming and exactly what to expect - the tightening in her muscles, the slow warmth that would seep through her seemingly out of nowhere, that sweet taste that was just a bit off. Despite her best efforts, she sank back bonelessly against the fluffy pillows, letting out a sigh instead of the scream she had wanted to force out only a moment before.

“There,” he said, rubbing her foot methodically. “See? You know that it isn’t so bad, kitten. I’m not so bad. You did marry me, after all.”

She wanted to argue with him but there was always a moment, a long moment, where it was almost like her tongue had swelled and was too big for her mouth. She couldn’t form words and she couldn’t really think - that was where she was stuck, staring at him and the rhythmic way he rubbed her foot-between her toes, down to the soft arch, back up, down to her heel. Eventually he leaned forward, his lips pressing gently against that space just under her toes.

“That dress looks so pretty on you, kitten,” he murmured, his fingers creeping up her ankle slowly. She twitched, just the slightest bit, and he smiled softly, running his thumb over the spot that had caused the slight tickle again. “You are very indecisive, Christine. Even you know that - you always have been. You may not think so now, but I will make you happy, in the long run. I’ve always had to make decisions for you - you’ve always wanted me to. One day you’ll be glad that I made this decision for you. I know it won’t be today but that’s okay. I’ve always been patient. Today just having you is enough.”

He started to climb up on the mattress slowly, over top of her. His eyes were intense, focused on hers, and when she began to pull away he pressed his hand firmly against her stomach.

“Relax, kitten,” he breathed. “I won’t hurt you. You already know that.”

“Please,” she whispered, pushing weakly at his shoulders and chest as he continued to get closer and closer. “Erik, you’re scaring me, please sto-“

The ‘P’ was lost, swallowed by his mouth as he forced his thin lips against hers, seeming not to even notice the way she pushed against him. She pressed her knees together as tightly as she could under the sheets between them.

They hadn’t been… intimate… since she lost the baby. She half hoped that the scare was enough to keep him away but she knew, deep down, that it wasn’t. She wasn’t sure that anything would ever be enough to actually end the physical things that he craved.

He balled the sheets in his hand, pulling them over. They bunched up uncomfortably between them and despite the fact that she was clenching her thighs so tightly that her muscles trembled his hand found its way in any way. She gasped when his impossibly cold fingers made contact with her hot flesh.

“Stop, stop, stop,” she mumbled against his lips, pressing her eyes closed in an attempt to hold the tears she felt gathering.

He caught one of her wrists, pressing it against the pillow next to her head while his other continued to work between her legs, stroking and digging. “You’re being ridiculous,” he said when he pulled back just the slightest bit. “And you certainly don’t feel like you mean that,” he added, one finger pressing deep inside of her meaningfully. “Does that hurt?”

“No,” she breathed. She wasn’t really sure herself wether it was an answer to his question or a plea.

“Then shush,” he said, his thumb massaging the flesh of her wrist that he had been clutching just a bit too tightly.

“I don’t feel good,” she said breathlessly, trying to ignore the shockwave of overwhelming pleasure-pain that came when his thumb rubbed with determination against her clit. “I’m dizzy, I can’t-“

“You are breathing fine,” he said softly. “Kitten, close your eyes. Just close your eyes and let yourself feel good. It’s okay.”

Christine shivered. The pad of his finger circled her sensitive clit and two more delved deep inside of her, reaching, curving. She let out a breathless sound and he shifted above her.

“Does it hurt?” he asked softly.

She could only shake her head, digging her fingers into his arm and trying to anchor herself to something solid.

He sighed and kissed her temple with his too-dry lips. “Good.”

The truth was, it felt good. She closed her eyes and tried her hardest to imagine that it was Raoul leaning over her; it made it bearable, at least. Erik almost always brought her some form of pleasure and it only made it worse. She didn’t _want_ to feel good with him. She didn’t want _him_. It was bad enough to bear his touch; when he coaxed her into a reluctant orgasm it was like being betrayed by her own body.

It should just be painful and mean. Sometimes she wished it was.

When she shuddered around his fingers he sighed again, kissing her temple gently just the same way before he pulled away from her.

She heard something being ripped open but she didn’t want to look at him; she lay stiff on her back, her eyes closed tightly. She wanted to move away, she wanted to tell him no again. Her head was swimming and her muscles were weak - even if she did get away she was more afraid of what would happen when he caught her than she was of just staying. At least here, in this situation, she _knew_ what to expect. She had no idea what to expect if he had to catch her.

The mattress dipped with his weight and his hand found her far hip, tugging her gently. “Come here, kitten.”

She moved with his direction, her eyes still closed as she climbed atop him, as he held her hips and positioned her over him in just the way he wanted.

He had almost been obsessive about wanting her on top since he had first seen the little plus on the pregnancy test.

When she peeked down at him, she thought maybe she knew why.

It was because he could look at her. It was because with just a little bit of imagination he could pretend that she wanted him too. He always seemed to like it most when she had to actively participate; sometimes, when she was trapped under him, it was like he seemed to forget that she was there. It was always harsher and quicker and she thought maybe it was _because_ of the stiff way she would lay, her eyes closed against the sight of him.

It wasn’t until he nudged against her that she realized the sound she heard was a condom package. There was some sort of relief that came with the realization as she sank down on him.

He was staring at her intensely. Not her body, like she might have expected, but her face as his hands rested against her hips, holding the hem of the short dress up and guiding her just the slightest bit. He didn’t really have to guide her anymore; she knew what he liked and she did it because she knew that if she did it would be over quicker.

“You’re beautiful, kitten,” he murmured.

He was still staring at her and she stared right back. Her eyes shifted over his mask, down to his thin lips, back up to his yellow eyes.

It hadn’t really occurred to her, until that moment, how strange it was that she had never seen his face. Maybe that was stupid. The more she thought about it the dumber it sounded but the truth was, it had simply always been. He had always worn a mask and she never gave it much thought; in her mind, that _was_ his face.

She had lived with him for nearly a year. She had carried his baby, lost his baby, apparently married him and she had never even seen his face. Even though she knew that she should, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mask. It was tempting her, teasing her, and when he groaned and his eyes fluttered closed she knew that she couldn’t stop herself.

Why should she anyway? He certainly didn’t seem to care when she asked him to.

It all happened so quickly that she didn’t even have much of a chance to honestly look when she pushed the mask up. His hands tightened painfully on her hips, he yanked her down on himself roughly and he flipped her under him so suddenly that it knocked the wind out of her despite the softness of the mattress.

“If you want to look then look, open your eyes.” There was a false calmness laying overtop of his words; she could hear the tremble at the edge of it and _that_ was what honestly scared her.

She hadn’t considered how vulnerable she actually was in the moment but now, trapped underneath him, it was all she could think about. She could hardly catch her breath but she still tried weakly to push at his chest; he didn’t even acknowledge it.

Eventually he caught her wrists tightly, holding them together in one hand and pressing them harshly into the pillow over her head. She pulled against his grip but it was pointless - the only thing she accomplished was getting herself hurt when his boney fingers dug into her skin. She could feel the impressions of his nails.

“Christine,” he said harshly, not even bothering to hide the hard anger in his voice. “Open your eyes, you stupid girl. If you want to _see_ then see or I will have to make you look.”

She couldn’t stop them. The tears that slipped out were too warm against her skin, his breath was hot on her face and he shifted, pressing even deeper inside of her. “Please,” she whispered shakily. “You’re scaring me.”

“I haven’t done a thing,” he answered, digging his nails into her wrist. His hand was suddenly against her throat. “I don’t want to hurt you, kitten,” he said, his voice suddenly soft and coaxing. “I don’t like to hurt you - just open your eyes, sweetheart. It’s okay. I know women - all so curious. It was only a matter of time.”

“I’m scared,” she whispered. It wasn’t even just her voice any more - she was trembling uncontrollably.

His hand tightened against her throat suddenly. She pulled against his hold but it was pointless. His grip was solid and steady. She made an attempt to kick at him - anything - but he was positioned just perfectly between her legs and all she could manage to reach with her feet were the backs of his thighs and she didn’t have enough room to actually _kick_. He only used the opportunity to force himself even deeper inside of her - she couldn’t even gasp with the pain of it. Erik had put his hand around her throat before, once, but she had never honestly been afraid that he would _actually_ kill her until this exact moment.

“Just breathe, kitten,” he mocked, his tone tender. “All you need to do is open your eyes - _stop kicking_ or I will actually hurt you.”

Christine tried her hardest to think through the fog of the drug and the burn of her lungs still trying to desperately fill themselves even though it was a hopeless endeavor. It had to be bad, whatever was hidden by the mask. His eyes were _yellow_. She had no reason to think it would be anything other than bad. Should she scream? Would it make him more angry to have no reaction or to have a bad one?

She had no choice anymore. Her lungs were burning, her blood was pounding angrily in her ears and she honestly _was_ dizzy now. She opened her eyes out of desperation, staring up at him as blankly as she could manage to.

His hand loosened immediately and the burn of the breath that she took made her cough. Her eyes were watering and for a long moment they simply stared at each other in silence.

“I’m quite handsome, aren’t I?”

It wasn’t until his thin, dry lips moved that she was able to actually comprehend what she was looking at.

It took everything she had to keep herself from making a sound. It was horrifying, worse than anything she had invented in her head. When he was still, just staring at her, she wasn’t sure that he was actually even alive. His skin was ashen and grey, mottled with purplish bruises - she thought it must be where the mask pressed against him but there was no way of knowing. There was a vein in his temple that she could actually see throbbing. The skin around his eyes sagged, the skin around his lips was pulled so tight that it was nearly translucent and, perhaps the most horrifying part of the entire sight, he had no nose. At first she thought it was simply a deep, empty hole but the longer she stared at it the clearer it was - it wasn’t a hole, it was simply a deep crevasse. She could see two slits, set deep back, right where his nostrils should be.

“I’m a monster,” he said eventually. “Do you see, Christine? Is this what you wanted? Is this what you imagined in your head? You think me a monster. I wore it for you, Christine. Do you understand that? So much of what I’ve done-it has all been for you, kitten. I may be a monster - yes, I am. I suppose there is no debating that any longer - but I love you, Christine. Look at me - look me in the face and know that this - _this_ is what loves you, deeply, honestly, unconditionally… kitten, look at me.”

She had turned her face sideways against the pillow but he gave her no option - he caught her chin between his fingers and forced it up so that all she _could_ look at was him.

“I would do anything for you,” he said flatly, staring into her eyes. “Look at me, Christine - anything. The only thing I have to lose is you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She didn’t, not entirely. Her head was absolutely swimming. So she did the only thing she could do. She nodded numbly. When he continued to stare at her, she forced out a weak “Yes,” ignoring the harshness of her voice and the way the word stuck painfully in her dry throat.

When he sighed and buried his face against her throat, the only thing she felt was relief. She clutched onto his sleeves and held them tightly, trembling and silently praying that it was over as he began to move inside of her again.

* * *

She ran.

Erik wasn’t entirely sure what he expected. He wasn’t sure why it hurt - the girl wasn’t stupid. It was simple survival instincts. If someone wraps their hands around your throat like he had, you run as soon as you get the opportunity.

He had hardly rolled off of her before she bolted for the door of his bedroom.

There was a thud and he wasn’t entirely sure whether she had slid into the wall or fallen in the hallway - regardless, he didn’t have enough time to get up and look. Her bedroom door slammed so hard that the wall shook and he could already hear the scrape of moving furniture.

He ran his hand over his face slowly and then he got up, making his way into his bathroom and flipping the light on.

The only thing that he was certain of was that he wouldn’t apologize. He had nothing to apologize _for_. He certainly hadn’t shoved his own bare face in front of her eyes - he had rather hoped that she would never see it, impossible as it may have been.

There was dried blood under his nails. It wasn’t _uncommon_. Oftentimes he would clench his fist and dig his nails into his own palm - a nervous habit that he didn’t honestly feel anymore. He never noticed until he went to wash his hands. Despite the absence of any marks on his palms, he told himself that it must have been where it came from.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, scrubbing under his nails. All that he knew was when he started the water was scalding and by the time he stopped it was hardly even lukewarm.

It had all been a setback, to say the least. Things had been going so well. He thought that perhaps he should have seen it coming.

It was the way it seemed to go with Christine - every time he started to believe he was making headway, there was an inevitable step back.

He briefly wondered if he should have just let her have the damn baby.

He realized that it wouldn’t have worked anyway. She would have been miserable and he would have been forced to stare at the babbling thing as the living, breathing proof of her infidelity that it would have been.

That would do no good for anyone.

There was a fluctuation between hopelessness and resentment. If the girl would simply _try_ she would see that it wasn’t so terrible. He didn’t ask much of her at all - only her voice, a bit of faithfulness and her company. If she could only bring herself to tolerate him she might find out that he wasn’t the terrible monster that stared back at him from the mirror. He knew _how_ to be kind and he _wanted_ her to be happy. With him. He would keep her warm and fed and she would never have to worry about where she would lay her head again, she would never have to be bounced between homes again.

Erik had never really been what most would consider _stable_. He was a bit of a nomad. But for her, he would _try_. He didn’t think the same was so much to ask in return.

And then he caught her halfway across the living room with that stupid backpack that _he_ had bought her slung over her shoulder, moving toward the front door, and there was no fluctuation anymore.

“Where are you going?”

She froze. He wasn’t sure wether she was actually stupid enough to think she would actually get past him undetected or wether she had simply foolishly hoped that he would ignore it and let her go.

She turned toward him, holding the single strap slung over her shoulder tightly with one hand. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” she whispered hoarsely.

“Excuse me?” It was the only thing he could manage to say.

She didn’t say anything. She stared at him and took a step backwards toward the door.

She didn’t run when he moved toward her, she simply continued her slow backwards walk until there was nowhere else to go because the door was against her back and his chest was in front of her.

“You can’t take this,” he said, far more calmly than he thought he could manage as he hooked his fingers under the strap of the backpack.

“Ok,” she whispered, putting up no fight as he slid it from her shoulder.

It was light. He took a step back from her and stared at the backpack in his hand. “Christine?” he said softly, not looking at her. If he looked at her he would only fly into a rage and that would do no one any good.

“What?”

“You can go,” he said, weighing the backpack on the tips of his fingers. He was counting the hours in his head, trying to determine how long it would be before withdrawal got desperate enough to actually force her back. She would figure it out, eventually, but for now it was the guarantee he needed. It would buy him time. He had never allowed her to _actually_ experience it beyond a mild discomfort. “You can go but if you walk out that door, don’t come back. Not after what you did to me.”

When the door clicked closed behind her, all he could do was throw her backpack at the wall.


	23. Chapter 23

Christine ran. She wasn’t sure why - he hadn’t even made an attempt to follow her. It was the only thing she could do - run. She ran until the neighborhood opened up to the main road and she still felt wrong staying still - it didn’t matter that she could hardly breathe or that no-one was behind her.

The horn that blared when she darted out into the road didn’t even register in her mind until she felt the rush of cold air from the car that came a bit too close. She didn’t stop until she was under the hot florescent lights of the gas station across the road.

It wasn’t that she felt safe there - it was just the fact that she could see. She could see the traffic whizzing by on the road, she could see the mouth of the neighborhood and she would see him if he did come after her.

She stayed near the edge of the building. If anything did happen, she knew there would be at least one person inside working. Even if they did nothing for her, at least she would have a witness. Someone would know what happened to her. She didn’t realize how much that mattered to her until that moment, standing there and watching the cars go by, praying to see the one she was waiting for and tugging on the sleeves of the sweatshirt that was just a little too warm.

When the grey car pulled into the lot and came directly toward her, she honestly thought she might cry. She swallowed hard, trying to force the knot in her throat down as she made her way to the passenger side and climbed in silently.

There was a long moment of quiet. Christine stared down at her sleeve, pulling at a loose string. “I didn’t think you’d come,” she whispered her confession.

“I didn’t think it was really you,” Raoul answered quietly. “Did you change your number?”

She shook her head, finally glancing at him. “It was an app. There’s a lot of them.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his hands tight on the steering wheel. “Why am I here, Christine?” he finally asked. “I don’t get it. You just… disappear off of the face of the Earth and then suddenly, out of nowhere - I don’t get it.”

“Can we please go somewhere else?” she asked quietly. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I will, just like I promised. No more secrets. Just - not here, please.”

“Right,” he huffed. “I take you somewhere else. And then you don’t want to talk about it anymore. You insist I bring you back here or, God forbid, drop you off on the side of the road in the middle of the night to - I don’t even know anymore, Christine. I’m over the games.”

“It isn’t a game,” she breathed. The tears she had been trying so hard to hold back finally spilled over and she wiped at them angrily. She didn’t want to cry anymore. She was sick of it. “You can still hate me if you want,” she huffed. “Please can we go?”

Raoul sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking out of his own window. “Where do you want me to take you, Christine?” he finally asked, glancing back at her. “What do you want?”

“Anywhere,” she answered. “Anywhere but here - another parking lot. I don’t care where, just… not here.”

“And then you promise you’ll talk?”

She nodded, looking back down at her hands in her lap. “I promise.”

He sighed and Christine listened to the click of the gear stick as he put the car in drive. The relief she felt when he pulled out of the parking lot was immense. It was like she had forgotten how to breathe and suddenly remembered again.

She stared out of her window at the cars they passed. at the streetlights and palm trees that swayed in the breeze. Each one was just a little bit further away from Erik. She wasn’t sure why she felt a little guilty for being relieved by it.

“Meg was really worried about you,” he said softly. “She kept insisting that something must have happened to you, that you wouldn’t just disappear like that. We were both worried but no-one… neither of us even knew where you actually lived. No one seemed to.”

It wasn’t until he pulled into the parking lot of the busy little bar and shifted the car in to park that the reality of everything that had happened actually hit her; there was a catch in her throat and before she could stop it, her tears broke loose and she couldn’t reign them in.

She thought that he probably thought she was crazy. She knew that she was already a mess; she hadn’t had a chance to even brush her hair since that morning. Wrapped in an oversized hoodie and sobbing in the passenger seat of the guy she had broken up with and not spoken to in at least two months. Christine could feel herself trembling.

“Christine.” Raoul’s voice was soft but she could hear the worry in it. Hesitantly, he touched her arm. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not mad, okay? I was just really worried about you is all.”

“I thought he was going to hill me,” she gasped. “It was - was so scary and I didn’t know - I didn’t know who else to call or if you would come or what to do he’s so scary, he’s so- “

“Hey,” Raoul said, squeezing her arm. “Take a breath, Christine. You’re safe here, okay? You’re safe with me. Who are you talking about?”

She wiped angrily at her tears and took a shuddering breath, sniffling. “Erik,” she rasped.

Raoul tensed beside her. She heard the huff of his breath as he released it. “Meg met him,” he said eventually. “The, what, voice teacher? That was the last time she saw you. That’s all she would say - Erik. That Erik must have done something to you. You’re safe. Tell me what’s going on, Christine.”

“He loves me,” she breathed. “He says that - that he loves me, that God brought us together - that, oh God, it’s all so crazy, Raoul. I-I think he does. He loves me, he believes it, he would do… anything.” Christine shivered as the meaning of Erik’s words settled in.

_The only thing I have to lose is you._

“Take me back!” she gasped suddenly, turning toward him and grasping his arm tightly. “Oh God, take me back, please, he’ll kill you, he’ll-“

“I’m not taking you anywhere until you tell me what’s going on,” he said, covering her hand on his arm gently. “I’m not afraid of him.”

Christine could already feel the now familiar headache forming. She couldn’t honestly tell if she was trembling because she was so upset or if it was simply due to the symptoms she had become familiar with. “I don’t know where to start,” she whispered, wiping at the tears she still couldn’t stop with her free hand.

“The beginning is always a good place.” Raoul’s weak attempt at humor fell flat and he squeezed her hand gently with a sigh. “Tell me how it started.”

“I was fifteen when I met him,” she said, closing her eyes. “I didn’t have anyone. I was really young when my dad died and my mom - I don’t know. Sometimes I tell myself that they couldn’t track her down but honestly, I think she just didn’t want to deal with me. Do you know what that’s like, having no-one?”

Raoul shifted in his seat. She heard him on click his seatbelt. “… no,” he admitted eventually.

“It hurts,” she said, opening her eyes and tilting her head to look at him. “Knowing that your mom - your own mother  
doesn’t even want you. And then he came along. He told me I could _be_ someone. He saw something in me. I wanted to believe it. Is it so stupid to want to be someone?”

“No, it isn’t stupid, Christine,” he answered softly. “And you’ve been with him since then?”

Christine wiped at her eyes again. She thought that eventually she would have to run out of tears and she hoped it was soon. “He convinced me I was good enough,” she whispered. “I dropped out of school just after I turned sixteen. I wasn’t very good at school and he said it was a waste of time anyway. I’ve been… with him… since then.”

“With him,” Raoul repeated gently. “In what way?”

Christine closed her eyes tightly. “In every way,” she whispered. “At first it wasn’t so bad, I mean… I liked the attention. I never had that and I thought maybe - I don’t know. Maybe he was right. But it got worse. And then - the tea and that got worse too and sometimes I can’t _think_ when I’m with him.”

“He was drugging you?” Raoul asked quietly. She nodded, her eyes still pressed closed, and she felt his gentle touch on her arm. “That’s serious, Christine. It isn’t just… something people do. Did he threaten you? Is that why you vanished?”

She shook her head and peeked at him, her eyes half closed. “I was pregnant,” she admitted quietly. “And he was good to me. He was. I thought that things - but I lost it. I don’t know what happened. I lost the baby and everything just got so much _worse_. I didn’t mean to. I don’t understand - I heard it’s heart and then it was just gone and he… got worse.”

Before Christine really registered what was happening, Raoul had wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer in an awkward hug over the center console of the car. His hand was on the back of her head, pressing gently against her tangled hair. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “Christine, I’m so sorry. I wish you would have told me sooner.”

“I don’t hate him,” she admitted, returning his hug slowly. “That’s the worst part - I’m terrified of him but I don’t hate him. I want to - I want to be safe but I don’t want… I don’t know… I don’t want him to get in trouble, Raoul. Please, for my sake - God, don’t tell anyone about this.”

He was silent for a long moment but eventually, he sighed. “It’s your story to tell, Christine,” he murmured eventually. “I won’t tell anyone, but I can’t just let you go back there either.”

At that, Christine pulled away from his embrace. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked, her breath catching. “I don’t even have a high school education. I have no job, no money, if I pull anyone else into this - Raoul, he’ll kill them. He will, I know it.”

“No,” Raoul argued quietly. “He wants you to think that, Christine. He wants you to be scared because if you’re afraid of him, you’ll stay. The only person he’s going to hurt is you.”

“You don’t know him,” she argued, suddering as she remembered the look in his eyes. his terrible, dead face. “You don’t understand. I have to go back, at least… for a little while.”

“For a little while,” Raoul said softly. “I’m not letting you go back without a plan, Christine. You can’t stay there. You know that, right?’

She nodded her head slowly, wiping at the tears that were still flowing.

“Then let’s make a plan.”

* * *

In all truth, Erik honestly was asleep when the banging started on the front door. One would think that was a lie-normally it might have been-but his veins were pumped so full that he practically had no idea where he was. He slept soundly through the knocking on the front door. He was blissfully unaware of the soft, warm palm that beat against his bedroom window in desperation.

He was cruel, have no doubt, but when he had changed the locks in h is still furious state, his intention really had been to only let her panic for an hour or so. He certainly hadn’t intended to make her pass the entire night on the small cement step that he found her huddled on when he woke and realized that the sun was up and she had never made it to her bed.

“Did you puke?” he asked. It wasn’t how he meant to start the conversation, he swore that, but the stench of it was nearly unbearable.

She only shifted, her hands wrapping around the back of her head, pulling it closer to her knees that she had her face pressed between. “I’m dying.” she moaned.

“No you aren’t,” he scoffed, half kneeling beside her on the concrete step. “You aren’t dying, kitten. You only feel like it.”

She lifted her head slowly, looking over at him. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot, her nose bright red and dripping despite the fact that she sniffled. “What’s happening to me?” she whispered, her voice desperate and dry.

“Withdrawal,” he answered simply, finding no reason to lie to her about it. “This is what happens if you wait too long between doses, kitten. Come inside and I will help you.”

“I’ll puke,” she rasped.

“It’s okay. You’ve already made a mess anyway.” he pointed out, eyes tracing over the stain on the front of her shirt. “I can bring you a bag, if you’d like, but you have to come inside. I can’t bring it out here for you.”

She swallowed dryly, sniffing again as she stared at him.

“Come on, kitten,” he said softly. “Can you come inside?”

“You’ll hurt me,” she whispered.

“No,” he said softly. “I won’t, Christine. I’ll make it better for you. Do you want me to make it better? I’m not angry anymore. I promise. I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m scared.”

Erik was honestly impressed with his own patience. There had been a long learning period for it. Where before he may have grown impatient and snapped at her, he had gotten much better at softly directing her instead of having to use physical force; it wasn’t as difficult as he had once thought it would be. “I know, and we can talk about it,” he cajoled. “But we need to clean you up first, don’t we?”

She sniffed and nodded slowly.

“Good girl,” he said softly, extending his hand to her. “If you puke it’s okay, kitten. It’s easily cleaned.”

He stared at her hand when she reached for him; she was trembling. He wasn’t even sure that he could call it the shakes anymore. He wrapped his arm around her waist and let her lean against him when he finally shifted her to her feet, trying his best to ignore the smell of her.

“Right here,” he said as she leaned against him just far enough inside that he could close the door. “Do you need to sit down?”

At her weak nod he sighed, shifting his arm around her to balance her weight.

“Here we go - right here on the floor,” he coaxed, helping her slowly lower herself. “Good job, kitten,” he murmured, brushing her sweat-slick hair back with the very tips of his fingers. “I’m going to bring it right here to you, and then we’re going to get you in the shower. We can talk after that, okay? About everything.”

“I’m going to die,” she moaned again, her trembling fingers locked weakly in his shirtsleeves.

“No you aren’t, Christine,” he said softly. “I won’t let that happen but you have to let go of me, okay? Just for a few minutes.”

It took her a long moment to unhook her fingers from the fabric of his sleeves. The poor thing was crying and he thought it must have been painful, her eyes and cheeks looked like she had already rubbed them raw Her cough was dry and rough and that was when he finally moved.

She had certainly suffered enough, he thought. It had been quite a long time since he had allowed himself to actually experience withdrawal; looking at her brought on a strange sense of pity. The last time he had experienced anything near to the symptoms she was exhibiting had been because he simply had no means to get his next fix; it lasted for days.

Some would insist that they would only persist for seven days, some would say fourteen. In truth, his symptoms hadn’t truly been alleviated entirely until he got his next fix exactly thirty-one days after it began.

When he first dosed her, genuinely getting her hooked wasn’t at the forefront of his mind. She was afraid and in terrible pain; it was the only way that he knew how to take it away. In that exact moment, his intentions were honestly as pure as they had ever been.

Erik was no idiot, though. While the first dose may have been well-intentioned, the second certainly wasn’t. He knew, first hand, how terribly addictive it was.

Now he wasn’t sure how he felt about it as he stripped her shoe and sock off, running his thumb between her abused toes and watching her half dead face. She was gaunt and pale. The only color to her complexion was the irritated redness that he could only assume had come from the almost obsessive way she was rubbing at her eyes. She was still beautiful - of course she was - but he couldn’t help but feel some sort of sadness as he plunged the needle carefully between her toes.

She used to instinctively pull away from him at the uncomfortable prick. Now she hardly even made a sound. He set the needle on the ground beside his knee and rubbed his thumb apologetically over the injection site, trying to apply some small pressure to stem the slow ooze of blood. It never took terribly long before it clotted. She was young and, aside from his influence, healthy. She never bled as much as he did.

“There we go,” he said when he pulled his thumb away and didn’t see any fresh blood on the tip of it. He took the bottom hem of her shirt between the tips of his fingers. “Give it just a few minutes, you’ll feel better before you know it. Lift your arms for me, kitten.”

She obeyed him wordlessly and he was careful to keep the still-damp yellow stain that stretched from the collar of the shirt to the hem from touching her as he lifted it off of her.

“There,” he said, folding it in on itself so that he could set it aside on the hardwood without smearing it against the floor. He unbuttoned her jeans carefully and unzipped them. “You need to take those off here,” he said softly. “They’re soiled too.”

“M’sorry,” she slurred, wiping at her already red eyes.

“What for?”

“Making a mess,” she whispered. The girl could hardly keep her eyes open.

He looked at her carefully before he shifted his gaze to her shirt on the floor. He had never seen her wear it before. He would probably throw it out instead of trying to remove the stain. She likely wouldn’t remember. “It isn’t your fault,” he said slowly. “I love you just the same anyway.”

“My key got stuck.”

The way she said it was almost confusing. It wasn’t accusitory or angry. There was no inflection in her quiet voice. “I know,” he answered, shifting his gaze back to her. “I changed the locks.”

She blinked at him and wrapped her arms around herself tightly, shivering. “I didn’t think you meant it,” she whispered.

“I didn’t,” he sighed, sitting back on the floor in front of her. “Of course I didn’t mean it, kitten. I always want you to come home… I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Why didn’t you call?”

She gazed up at the counter and the spilled contents of her backpack. A bra hung over the edge. “You took my phone,” she reminded him.

He glanced up at the counter and sure enough, it was sitting there, tossed carelessly on top of a shirt. He didn’t completely remember dissecting the backpack’s contents, he only remembered thinking that she must have honestly had no intention of coming back when she threw it together. “I didn’t realize it was in there,” he admitted. “If you feel well enough… I think that perhaps its time for a shower.’’

“You promised we would talk,” her hoarse answer came.

“You have vomit in your hair, Christine,” he said, still staring at her phone. “Shower first.”

She made no complaint about the way he made her strip off her jeans in the entryway of the house and he made no attempt to strip her any further. When she finally did make her way down the hallway and into her bathroom, the first thing he did was bag up her clothing on the floor, setting it on the step just outside of the front door.

When he returned to the counter and the pile of her belongings that he hadn’t truly taken the time to examine, the first thing he reached for was her phone. He listened carefully to the running water as he turned it over in his hand. The screen had been surprisingly undamaged in his rage and he ran his thumb along it, opening up the passcode screen.

Daae. He tried it twice before it registered that she must have changed it at some point. It was the first time that he had ever attempted to look through it - normally reading the messages was easy enough but he had checked only the night before to find that there were no new incoming or outgoing messages. She was clever. He was certain that she hadn’t been alone after she left. He was even certain of who she had been with. The inability to confirm his suspicions was more infuriating than the thought of her running to the boy.

When he heard the water stop and the scrape of the shower curtain opening he set the phone carefully back where it had been, face down on her pile of clothing, and leaned back in the bar stool he was sitting on.

She scurried quickly across the hallway and slammed her bedroom door closed behind her. When she returned, minutes later, he didn’t turn to look at her.

“Do you think that he loves you?” he asked, toying with one of her socks on the countertop.

She stopped at the end of the hallway and shifted on her feet. “What?”

“Right,” he answered, laying the sock down on the counter and turning to look at her. “I have never stopped you from living, Christine. I never locked you away or refused to allow you to leave - you aren’t, nor have you ever been, a prisoner. If you feel that you are, it’s in your own head.”

She simply stared back at him, her arms wrapped around her chest.

“There would be no more music,” he said softly, watching her carefully. “It would be ordinary and dull - but if you wish to leave, you only have to say it. We can leave tonight if you are so unhappy. You’d be behind, of course, but I’m certain the school would gladly take you back. With a diploma and some government assistance - it would be livable. Not the extraordinary heights you’re meant for, but livable.’’

“To a group home,” she said softly, running her palms over the goose-flesh of her arms.

“I doubt they’d allow the old woman to take you back,” he said slowly. “I doubt they allowed any of them to stay, and for good reason. She was hardly a fit guardian.”

Christine stared back at him blankly and he sighed.

“You didn’t pack this for the streets,” he pointed out. “Perhaps he’s told you that he loves you-perhaps he even believes it, but he is young and dumb. He doesn’t know you, _understand_ you, the way that I do. No one will ever love you the way that I do. He will break your heart, Christine.”

She wanted to argue with him. He could see it in her face, in the way she held her lip captive between her teeth, in the way her hands had wrapped tightly around her upper arms.

To argue, she had to admit what he already knew. She wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry that I frightened you,” he sighed, turning away from her and touching the edge of the mask with his fingertips to reassure himself that it was there. “You never have to see it again… perhaps you should lay down, kitten. I doubt that you got any proper rest.”


	24. Chapter 24

Three days.

That was the condition that Raoul gave her. She could return to Erik, but she could only have three days to get herself together enough to leave.

If he didn’t hear from her, he would come for her himself.

He took pictures of the bruises on her wrists, of the crescent shaped scabs where Erik’s nails had dug into her wrist and slid. He even made her lift her hair so that he could see the light bruises on her throat in the yellow interior lights of his car, photographing them just as carefully and as well as he could with his cellphone. Even if he didn’t come, he said, the police would. He knew her address now. She couldn’t go back on her word.

Seventy-two hours wasn’t quite long enough to say goodbye to the closest thing to home she had know since her father died.

She had no idea what she would do with herself, let alone her life. Maybe that should be exciting, but it was more terrifying than anything.

Erik was sure of himself. He was confident. He had everything planned out for her, knew exactly what steps to take to get her there. Without him, she had no idea what would become of her.

Christine didn’t expect to feel sad at the thought of leaving him. Relief, maybe guilt or fear. It was the sadness that really stood out to her the most. She had no idea what she would do without him and she didn’t know what he would do without her either.

He had been just as alone as she had. He never talked about his life without her. He didn’t have a single actual friend that she knew of.

They had lived together a year and as far as she could tell, she was the only person in his life.

The first night she spent in her own bed, staring at her ceiling in the dark and twisting her ring around her finger. She told herself all sorts of things that night - that the marriage was under an alias and therefore it was invalid, that she had been drugged so she couldn’t be held to it. She repeated Raoul’s words to herself; ‘You are not responsible for him.’

The second night, she tearfully climbed into his bed with him in the middle of the night, breaking her promise to Raoul to keep her distance. He seemed surprised, but he didn’t push her away. He never had. He pulled her close and traced her cheek with his ice cold thumb.

“What’s wrong, kitten?” he asked softly.

She sniffed and turned her face in against his bony chest. He had no idea. She had been careful to hide her plans. She already had the few pieces of clothing she would take picked out. Her phone would be left behind. Raoul said they were too easy to trace. She would leave in the middle of the night, after she was sure he was closed in his room, sending one last message from her phone before she left it behind.

Raoul had warned her that she would have second thoughts. She hadn’t honestly expected them to be as strong as they were.

“It’s okay,” Erik said softly at her silence. His hand rubbed gently at her tense shoulders. “Will you sing for me tomorrow, kitten?” he asked quietly. “I’m afraid that we have been slacking a bit, don’t you think?”

She sniffled and nodded against him. It was all that she could offer him. She would sing her heart out for him, and then she would go.

XXX

It all went far more smoothly than she expected. Raoul’s car was idling at the end of the cul-de-sac and Erik never even opened his bedroom door. When she looked over her shoulder at the house, it was dark and quiet. There wasn’t even any light filtering from around the curtains in his bedroom. She thought that he must have dosed himself and if Raoul wouldn’t have flipped on his headlights, she honestly might have turned right back around to check on him.

She forced herself to keep walking, forced herself to climb into the passenger seat of his car just like she had a few days before, tossing her backpack into his backseat on top of the sweatshirt she had left there a few days before.

“Are you okay?” Raoul asked softly.

Rubbing at her surprisingly dry eyes, she nodded. “I will be,” she breathed, glancing over at him. “It’ll get easier, right?”

“This is the hardest part,” he said as he pulled away from the curb. “And you already got through it, Christine. It’ll get so much easier.”

“I know that you’re right,” she mumbled, twisting her ring around her finger. “It’s still scary.”

He reached over the center console, resting his hand over both of hers in her lap. “We have a plan, remember?” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, wrapping her thumb over his fingers. “I remember.”

The silence was long but mostly comfortable. Christine held his fingers tightly with her thumb, staring out of her window as he drove. She hadn’t seen his apartment in months and she was trying to remember it, trying to recall the academic titles printed on the spines of the books cluttering his countertop.

“I’m going to go into withdrawal,” she whispered, closing her eyes against the thought. “It’s really ugly and it’s - it’s scary.”

“One thing at a time, right?” he asked, shifting the car into park. “It wont last forever. We’ll get you through it. Do you know what he was actually using?”

She shook her head. “He only ever called it medicine.”

“He put it in tea?”

“At first,” she said, rolling her head against the seat to look at him. “After the baby he used a needle. They were different, I think.’’

He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “It only lasts so long. We’ll get you through that and then worry about a GED. But first things first - lets get you settled in. It’s really late.”

The air was chilly. She wrapped her arms around herself and didn’t argue when he took her backpack and held the door of the building open for her.

His apartment looked exactly the way she remembered it, if not a little cleaner. Probably because he knew that she was coming.

A part of her was glad that he kept his distance from her, that he didn’t expect her to fall straight into his arms and into his bed with him the way she had before. Another part of her resented it because it just reminded her that she was damaged.

“What are you thinking about?”

She shook her head. “I’m just exhausted, I think.’’

“Understandably,” he answered. His hand was light, warm and gentle on her shoulder. “Come on. You can have my bed tonight. We’ll figure it out tomorrow after we’ve both had some sleep.”

“I’m going to puke.”

“Now?” he asked.

“No, I mean… before the night is over,” she said, twisting her ring even harder. She was almost glad that she had it. It gave her something to do with all of her nervous energy. “The withdrawal - I can sleep on the couch.”

“That’s just silly,” he answered. “Sheets can be washed.”

She let him lead her into his bedroom. He set her backpack by the foot of his bed and moved the trashcan from across the room, setting it near the edge of the bed, right in front of his nightstand.

“I’ll put a bag in it, just in case,” he said, standing back up and looking at her. “Do you need anything else?”

“Can I have some water, please?” she asked hoarsley, forcing it around the lump in her throat.

“Of course,” he answered. “I’ll bring it right in.”

When he left her alone, she sat on the edge of the bed and looked around his room. Only a few months ago, her biggest dream had been to spend a single full night there. Last time she had been in that bed, she had been so happy and comfortable wrapped in his arms. She felt safe and warm and loved.

She wasn’t sure if she would ever actually have that back. Things had changed a lot in way too short of an amount of time. If she even survived her withdrawal, she wasn’t sure that Raoul would actually want anything with her again. Not now that he knew most of the truth, knew how broken and damaged and just plain stupid she was.

She was nothing more than the statistic that everyone had always expected her to become growing up.

The clink of the glass on the bedside table made her jump and she stared down at her knees when she heard the rustle of the grocery bag he used to line the garbage can.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked softly.

She shook her head and used her wrist to wipe at her tears. She wanted to thank him but she was afraid her voice wouldn’t hold up to it.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she breathed.

“Do you want a hug?”

She sniffled and nodded. She couldn’t look at him, not even when she felt the dip of the mattress when he sat beside her, but he pulled her into his arms anyway and let her bury her face against his shoulder and didn’t even complain when her nails dug into his arms.

“I’m not joking,” he said, using his hand to smooth her hair. “What you’re doing is so incredibly brave, Christine. Telling me was so brave. I’m not upset with you - I’m actually really proud. I know Meg would be too. She’s gonna be so happy to see you again.”

He held her for a while, even when she couldn’t bring herself to answer him, and when he eventually pulled away he pressed his soft, warm lips briefly to her forehead.

“You know where everything is,” he said slowly. “If you need anything at all I’ll be right out there on the couch, okay? Try to at least get a little sleep, Christine. You’ll feel better after some good rest.”

XXX

Christine’s dreams were filled with nightmares.

They flashed so suddenly that she wasn’t even sure what to grasp onto. A corpse’s face above her, chasing her, his _voice_ calling to her, calling.

When she closed her eyes images of her dad flashed behind them.

She didn’t dare to stop running. He was right there, right  
behind her, she knew even though she couldn’t see him. She could _feel_ him. She ran herself into exhaustion and she kept going anyway. She wasn’t even sure that it was a dream - her lungs burned, her legs ached and she had never felt anything quite so realistic in a dream before.

When she finally did stop, forced by her exhaustion, there was nothing but still silence. She dared to turn around, only briefly, and saw a figure slumped on the ground. Closer, closer, it didn’t even move as she drew near, not even as she knelt on the ground in front of it. Twigs ripped at her as she crawled toward it and she continued on anyway.

His skin was just as cold as it had ever been. When she wrapped her hand around his she felt something warm and sticky. She turned his arm curiously, staring at the deep gash that dripped, dark and red and sticky.

No matter how loud she screamed, how hard she shook him, he never so much as lifted his head.

When she jolted awake, she reached blindly for the trashcan that she knew was there. The bile burned terribly all the way up her already raw throat. She half caught herself with a hand on the nightstand and used it to lower herself carefully to the floor, trying her best not to wake Raoul up as she retched and coughed into the bag.


	25. Chapter 25

There was absolutely nothing to indicate that the morning was different than any other. Christine had never been early to rise, not without a reason, and she often slept with her bedroom door closed at his own insistance. Of all the irrational fears he had collected for himself over the years, fire was the greatest. It was the only reason he hadn’t dared to put bars on her window when she first began sneaking around.

He might not be the best at caring for her but if she died in a freak house fire because of his own stubborn jealousy, he would have no choice aside from slitting his own wrists. There would be no peace for him.

Regardless, it wasn’t rare for her not to emerge until near noon. Even if she was awake, she was quiet. That much had never really changed. She was an unobtrusive companion.

He still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

He brewed coffee and watched the slow drip. The caffeine hardly did anything for him but Erik had learned a long time ago that routine was good for him, and so he picked up coffee as one of his less destructive vices. Moderation wasn’t his strong suit, he often drank through a pot or more a day, but he reasoned that if he was somehow lucky enough to die of natural causes the coffee would be the least impactful reason his heart gave out on him.

Erik had survived for most of his life on instinct alone. That was why, despite the fact that all was ordinary, he knocked gently on her bedroom door at eight thirty in the morning. Even if he couldn’t place it exactly, _something_ was undoubtably wrong.

“Kitten?” he asked softly, leaning against the wooden door. “I know that you can hear me. Is everything okay? If you tell me to go away I will.”

Silence answered him and he pressed his ear close to the door, practically holding his breath while he listened for any sign of life. A sniffle or even just a rustle would have been enough to satisfy him. There was nothing and the sudden rush of blood in his ears told him that he wouldn’t be able to hear it now.

“I’m coming in,” he warned, holding the cold doorknob for a moment longer and waiting for her protest. None came and he pushed the door open a bit too roughly.

Her bed was made and empty aside from the cellphone that was placed almost perfectly in the center of her pillow. Her closet doors were propped wide open and clothing was strewn on the floor just outside of it, almost like she had been searching for something in particular.

His first thought, before panic set in, was that he hoped she found whatever she had been digging for.

Erik had an odd way of handling panic. The more distress set in, the calmer he became. The first thing he checked was her window. It was closed tightly and locked. The glass was completely intact - there was no reason to believe that anyone had tampered with it in the night. Her room was a mess, certainly, but there was nothing to indicate a struggle of any sort. The rest of the house was clean and just as meticulously kept as it always was.

It only took about ten minutes between knocking on her door and sitting on the edge of her bed to realize what he didn’t want to admit; his songbird had flown away purposely.

Erik almost always had a plan. He was very rarely at a loss. For the first time, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He was fairly sure that he knew who she was with; he drew some small comfort from that. At the very least, she was safe. Wherever she was, he knew that the boy would at least keep her warm and fed. He had very little reason to believe she was out wandering the streets - she was smart enough to be too afraid to do that.

With a little digging, Erik was almost certain he could track down an address for the boy. And then what? Kill him and frighten her away even further? Drag her back and chain her to her bed? He wasn’t quite sure what the answer was. The things he would like to do and the things that would give him the outcome he desired very rarely matched up.

He reached blindly for her phone on her pillow, staring at it between his hands. She had been smart to leave it behind. He would have found her already if she had it. He almost wished that he wasn’t so proficient; he had no way to track her, but he also had no way to hear her voice.

He could tell himself all day that it was her safety that he was concerned for, but he knew that his reasoning was mostly selfish. She would have been just fine if he had never walked into her life and she would honestly be better off without him.

She was miserable. He knew that she was. At this very moment he could imagine her leaning over a toilet, vomiting that terrible yellow bile. Her body didn’t have much of anything else to purge. He hadn’t even been taking proper care of her. No methadone clinic would help her. She had no proof of a long-term addiction and wait-lists were a mile long. He wasn’t even sure that she knew _what_ the terrible drug he had introduced her to was.

Erik was pretty sure that for the first time in his life, he was experiencing true guilt. He had handed her the means to misery and then he had chased her away with no help. Unlike Christine, he knew that he couldn’t blame the nauseous twist in his stomach on withdrawal.

xxx

Seven days. It took him much longer to track her down than he had expected. He realized, belatedly, that he knew next to nothing about the boy. It was all very counterintuitive.

He could only glean so much information from the text messages between the two. The boy attended a university somewhere nearby. Erik could only assume his parents funded it - the fact meant nothing but it was there all the same, only one more reason to dislike the boy. He had not only stolen Christine away, he couldn’t even pay his own bills.

It wasn’t actually the boy that he cared about in the end. He was grateful that he had taken a picture of his car in the beginning of it all - he only happened to stumble upon it in the parking lot of a strip mall. It was all that he needed.

The boy appeared with two cups in his hands and a paper bag under his arm. He didn’t even notice Erik following him. He was oblivious to the car that followed every turn he made and stayed just close enough to keep sight of him.

When he pulled into the apartment complex lot, Erik continued down two streets before he doubled back.

It was the first time he had seen her in seven days. It took him a while to pick her out, peeking out from behind the curtains of an apartment on the second floor. She didn’t seem to see him - her eyes were focused on the boy’s car, parked three rows in front of Erik’s.

He missed her. It wasn’t the first thought that he expected to have, but he did. He let go of the steering wheel and leaned back in his seat, staring up at her. She was pale but she didn’t look quite as bad as he expected her to. Her hair was brushed and she looked clean. She looked taken care of. She no longer looked quite as gaunt as he remembered.

It was a good thing. He did his best to remind himself of that. If she was healthy and happy, that’s what he should want, right?

He tried to deny the fact that it wasn’t to himself.

She disappeared from the window when the boy made his way into the building. Erik continued to stare up at that place where she had been standing. Shadows moved behind the curtain.

Part of him wanted to follow the boy up the stairs. He wanted to wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze until he stopped fighting, he wanted to drag her home by her hair, put those bars on her window that he never had before, refuse to let her out of his sight again.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t even bring himself to get out of his car. He felt absolutely pathetic about the entire thing. He lost track of the amount of time he sat there for, but by the time he did pull out of the parking lot the sun had gone down, the lights in the apartment had gone out and he had a throbbing, pounding headache.

At least he knew where she was.

* * *

“You still look tired,” Raoul pointed out, handing her an iced coffee. “But you have a little more color, I think. That’s good. How do you feel?”

“Better than this morning,” she said, holding the cold cup between both of her hands. The familiar temperature was a little soothing and she tried her best not to think about it too hard. “I think I’m finally over the shaking.”

He moved slowly, pressing his warm palm against her forehead. “That’s good,” he said again, softly. “You’re still a little warm.”

“Raoul,” she whispered as he pulled his hand away from her. “Thank you,” she breathed at his questioning look. “I don’t - I haven’t said it yet, I just - I don’t deserve it, after  
everything. Thank you.”

“Don’t deserve what, Christine?” he asked quietly. “Help? To feel safe? A chance? Because I have to say, as respectfully as I can, you’re wrong. You have to get him out of your head.”

Christine blinked rapidly at the tears she felt and Raoul sighed, taking the coffee from her hands and leading her to the small couch he had taken up occupancy of. Christine couldn’t help but think it wasn’t comfortable - his feet had to hang over the edge. He never complained about it.

“One day you’ll smile again,” he said softly. “I can’t wait for it - you have such a pretty smile, Christine. Did you know that?” She sniffled and shook her head. He, only gave her a sad smile and wiped her tears away with his thumbs.

“Well you do,” he sighed. “It was one of the first things I noticed about you. It was always genuine and you deserve it, Christine. You deserve to be healthy and happy and you deserve more than _that_. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even yourself.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, staring back at him. The truth was, she didn’t really believe him. She didn’t believe him because Erik was still in her head, she missed him half to death and she was still leaning forward. She still pressed her lips to Raoul’s soft, warm lips and she thought that she couldn’t be good, she couldn’t _deserve_ to be happy when she was kissing him and thinking about Erik.

He kissed her back. His warm palm pressed against her cheek and the tips of his fingers snaked into her hair.

He pulled back first. He gave a breathless sort of laugh and smoothed her hair slowly with his palm. “You’re still warm,” he murmured, pulling away. “You should rest, Christine. It is getting a little late now. I can put the coffee in the fridge for you for the morning.”

She fidgeted. She pulled at her sleeve and shifted on the couch, and then she sighed. “Raoul, I need to know if there’s a chance -“

“Yes,” he said softly, cutting her off. He smiled sheepishly and squeezed her cold fingers gently. “Of course there is. But what’s important right now is making sure you’re okay. All the rest of it comes second.”


	26. Chapter 26

It took him two weeks to get her alone.

He spent hours in the parking lot of the apartment complex in the ugliest rental car he had ever driven. Every so often he would move spots, trying his best not to be noticed, always making sure that he had a view of the building door at the very least. Hours and days - he could practically draw a map of the complex with his eyes closed.

Erik wasn’t sure if the boy never let her leave or if she was simply too smart to. Regardless, it was two weeks before he was able to get close enough, before she ventured out on her own.

Christine lacked observation. It was a fact that had never truly concerned him before; he had always been there to take care of her, to observe _for_ her. Now it only worked to his advantage.

She wasn’t hard to catch. One arm around her waist, one hand pressed tightly over her mouth and he dragged her into the shadows of an alleyway before anyone even noticed that she had been plucked from the sidewalk like prey.

The problem was, he wasn’t really sure what to do with her once he had her. His plans were rarely ever fully fleshed out; all he did know was that he couldn’t hold onto her for long.

She fought him with strength he never really knew she possessed. He caught an elbow to his ribs, a heel to his shin, and her nails practically clawed at his wrist.

_Like a caged animal._

“Stop, kitten,” he said eventually, tugging her back a little harder while he tried to keep hold of her. “Shush. I’m not going to do anything to you. I only want to see you.”

Her breath was quick and hot against his palm and he lifted his hand slowly.

“I’ll scream.” Her voice was harsh and heavy, low, but surprisingly steady.

“Please don’t,” he said softly. “Christine - I’m going to let go of you now. If you promise not to scream.”

“Yeah,” she breathed. “I won’t scream.”

He half expected her to bolt the moment he loosened his grip on her. Instead she stumbled forward a few steps, her hand flew to her throat and she doubled over for a long moment, shoulders hunched and back turned obstinately toward him.

“I only wanted to see you,” he repeated gently. “Christine - kitten, will you look at me? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

“… I’m sorry,” he answered softly. “I won’t. Christine, please look at me.”

She turned and fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. The fingers of one hand were moving slowly against her throat like he had grabbed it and caused some sort of damage - he hadn’t, he hadn’t touched anything but her mouth, but he had to wonder if she thought that he had. Her other arm was wrapped tightly and protectively around her midsection.

“Did I hurt you?” he repeated.

She continued to massage her throat but slowly she shook her head.

“Good. I didn’t intend to,” he said, eyes roaming over her. “You look good, Christine. Healthy. That’s good.”

“What is this?” she whispered eventually. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

He shifted awkwardly. There was no itch but he scratched at his arm anyway. “It isn’t like I could just call you up,” he answered. “You left your phone behind.”

She had never looked at him as incredulously as she did in that moment. “Don’t you think that means something?” Her voice teetered on the edge of hysteria - he wasn’t sure whether she was going to laugh or cry. It almost seemed like she wasn’t either.

“I can’t just walk away like you obviously can,” he snapped defensively. He hadn’t meant for the words to come out so harshly and he took a moment to breathe, shaking his head like it would put the thoughts that had been racing since the moment he realized she was gone in order. “I needed to see you, Christine. I just needed to know that you - that you’re okay.”

At that she spread her arms and tapped her palms against her legs. “I’m fine,” she answered. “You see. No holes in my clothes, I’m eating… I’m not strung out anymore. I’m _great_ , Erik.”

It was meant to sting. There was a certain tone that always crept into her voice when she was upset - she spoke just slightly higher than normal, even her kind words had a jagged edge to them. It was there. Erik tilted his head slightly as he looked at her. Her cheeks were pink. “You must hate me.”

“I left, didn’t I?” she breathed.

“You haven’t run,” he pointed out gently.

For a moment, just a moment, she straightened her back like she was trying to inflate herself. It didn’t take long to crumple. He wasn’t sure what to think about the way she frowned because she didn’t _say_ anything. Her eyes just shifted down to the top button of his shirt.

“… I’m not going to hold you down, Christine,” he said softly. “I’m not going to grab you and run, I’m not - I can’t. What will it do? You’ll just find a new way to run, a better place to hide. If you hate me you can say it. I’d almost rather you did.”

Christine made a breathless sort of sound and her arms wrapped protectively around her chest. She still wouldn’t look at him but she shook her head and pressed her eyes shut tightly.

“I miss you,” he confessed quietly. “I miss everything about you. Things are incredibly lonely without you, Christine.”

“ _Stop it_ ,” she said harshly. It seemed that whether she had decided or not, her body had. Tears leaked from her clenched eyelids. “This is what you do - this is _why_ , Erik. I can’t - God, I can’t be around you.”

“Why?” he asked softly.

“Because sometimes I actually believe you,” she gasped, finally looking up at him with her shining eyes. “You did this to me - you - I don’t know. What did you do to me, Erik?”

“… I’m afraid you’d have to be more specific,” he answered truthfully. “I haven’t drugged you if that’s what you’re implying. I honestly have no desire to send you through withdrawal again.”

She ground her palms violently against her eyes and coughed dryly. “I don’t want to cry anymore,” she whispered shakily. “I don’t _want_ to and I can’t _stop_. I believed you. I did. Everything you said. I _trusted_ you. I just want to be happy - I should be and I _can’t_. What did you do to me?”

His breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. When he reached for her, he did it slowly. At his touch she tensed slightly, but she still let her hands fall away from her eyes, sniffling as he ran his thumb under her eye to wipe away her tears. “It isn’t anything I _did_ , Christine,” he said softly. “I’m sure I didn’t help but… when is the last time you were honestly happy? For more than just a day or two. Before your father died?”

Her lip began to quiver and if he was honest, he hated it.

“I don’t know what it is,” he admitted quietly. “Depression or anxiety - I don’t know, Christine. All that I do know is that it’s been there for as long as I’ve known you.”

“This too,” her shaky voice said. “Like it’s all my fault - you always make me feel like everything is my fault and I’m not - I’m not crazy, Erik. I know I’m not.”

“What?” he asked softly. His heart was swollen and heavy, it ached in a way he had never felt before. “Depression or anxiety - Christine, that isn’t your fault. They’re things that just _are_. Hardly anything has been your fault. You’re right in that - you aren’t crazy. You just had the misfortune of me falling in love with you.”

She sniffed again and he slowly raised his other hand to her cheek, wiping away those tears too.

“Do you think you can be happy?” he asked softly. “With him, I mean. I will not drag you out of here today. I can’t _force_ you to do anything. You’ve proven that. If you walk away - I need to know that you’ll be happy.”

She sniffed and closed her eyes. “I think I can try,” she whispered shakily.

It was the first time she hadn’t tried to deny the relationship to him. It was the final barb through his heart and he nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said softly. She wouldn’t be. He knew that. He knew it from the look in her eyes that she tried desperately to hide from him, from the way her lips parted just the slightest bit when he got closer to her. “Then make me a promise right now, Christine. Promise me that you’ll be happy. That you’ll make something of yourself - that you’ll live. If you walk away from me today, you’re making that promise.”

“You scare me,” she breathed, blinking up at him.

He wiped away a few more of her tears with a tense smile. “I know. And it’s my fault, Christine. You don’t need to be afraid of me anymore - I will be out of your life if you walk away from me today.”

“I thought you were going to kill me.” Her words were excited and breathless. “Erik, I thought - you scared me so bad. I thought you were going to kill me and that’s why -“

“You left,” he said, cutting her off. “I know. You don’t need to explain it to me, Christine. I already know. I forgive you. I hope that maybe one day you’ll forgive me too. I never meant to frighten you.”

“… were you going to?” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“Going to what?”

She cleared her throat, blinked, and shifted her eyes to stare at his bottom lip. “Kill me.”

“No.” If he was completely honest, he wasn’t sure whether it was a lie. Now he was revolted by the thought but then, in the heat of it all, he couldn’t honestly say that it hadn’t crossed his mind. It was the ever intrusive thought that flickered through his head at the most inopportune moments. He pushed it away - he always pushed it away - but he wasn’t sure that it made it any better. He was nearly certain that contemplating the murder of a spouse wasn’t quite normal regardless of whether there was follow through or not. And now, as if only to prove to himself that he was in control, he let the tips of his cold fingers brush against the delicate side of her throat, using only enough pressure to feel her steady pulse against the pads of his fingers. “I never want to hurt you,” he said softly. “I only want you to be happy.”

She stared up at him. Her bottom lip quivered. They stared into each other’s eyes in silence for a long moment. “I have to go,” she said eventually, her voice dry and wavering. “Raoul - he’ll be home soon and if I’m not there… I have to go, Erik.”

He lingered for a few seconds and then, slowly, he pulled his fingers away from her. “Then go,” he said softly.

She stayed just where she was. She shifted on her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. “You can’t follow me,” she said suddenly. “No more of this. No stalking, no more - whatever this is. Erik, you have to stop. If you let me go… you have to let me go.”

“I’m letting you go, Christine,” he said. “I’ve already told you that - I will be out of your life.”

For a moment, just a fleeting second, something like disappointment flickered through her eyes. He wasn’t sure whether it was because she didn’t truly want it or whether it was because she was disappointed that he didn’t argue.

He had no reason to argue. He knew exactly where she was.

“I have to go,” she repeated stubbornly.

He nodded slowly. “You’ve already made that clear, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I’m not stopping you.”

She opened her mouth as if she were going to say something but no words came out. Her lips pressed together in a thin line and after a long, long moment, she finally turned and walked away.

Her steps were slow and uncertain, but she didn’t look back. She didn’t turn her head to look at him. She just walked on slowly and he simply watched her go.

She would come back. He was sure of that. If nothing else he had proven to himself that not _all_ was lost. She was quite clearly drawn to him in some sick, self-sacrificial. It should have been a happy discovery, he thought. Instead it almost made him sad.

He waited until he was certain she was gone to follow her path out of the alleyway, out to the car that she had never seen him in before.

There was no reason she would need to know that he was there - he already knew that he would never be able to let her go, just as she wouldn’t be able to ever turn away from him completely.

* * *

Christine hated him. She hated herself. She hated everything.

Erik’s lips had been so close to hers.

All she had ever wanted to do before was push him away. Why the first thought she had was how easy it would be to tilt her chin up and kiss him was beyond her. He was the last person she should want to kiss. If anything, she should _hate_ him.

Everything had been building for so long that she couldn’t stop it from rushing past her lips. Erik had _always_ been her confidant. She never talked to Raoul the way she did to Erik. Maybe it was because she felt like she was a burden, or maybe it was because she felt like Erik might actually _understand_ her more than she’d like to admit.

She missed him and she hated herself for it.

Suddenly, she thought she might understand why he called himself cruel. Because it was terribly cruel that she could hate herself but couldn’t bring herself to hate him.

Christine was determined, though. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry even though she felt like her heart was torn in two. She wouldn’t cry even though she _wanted_ him to kiss her and he didn’t; she wouldn’t think about his cold hands or the familiarity of his even tone or his _music_. She absolutely would not think about the music. If she did she _might_ cry.

She certainly wouldn’t think about the fact that she had just walked away from him and that maybe he never would kiss her again.

She paced the floor of Raoul’s small apartment, and it _was_ small. It felt very much like a cage and she knew that was utterly ridiculous. If anyone had tried to cage her it certainly wasn’t Raoul. She chewed on the inside of her lip until she tasted the metallic tinge of blood and she wondered if she had always been so anxious.

The shakes had abated, her nausea had all but disappeared, and she couldn’t help feeling like she still needed _something_. God, she craved the needle that made her thoughts stop in her head. It was exhausting, utterly exhausting. She couldn’t sleep or concentrate. Thoughts raced constantly in her head and all she wanted was to turn them off.

Raoul had no idea what to think when she threw herself into his arms nearly before he managed to close the apartment door. She ran her fingers through the short hair at the base of his scalp and pulled him down to her lips.

He was trying to say something but the words were muffled against her mouth and for a moment, just a moment, she wondered if he would mind too much if she just pretended she didn’t hear him.

That would make her no better than Erik. So she pulled back just a little bit, giving him just enough space to breathe. “What?” she whispered.

“Can I put my things down?”

It hurt and she couldn’t be sure why. It was the second time she had kissed him since she came back and she guessed she just wished he was at least halfway excited about it. Instead he just gently pushed her away.

Erik would have - no.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, pulling away from her and setting his backpack on the table. “You just surprised me is all. You’re full of surprises, Christine. I never really know what to expect.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you not want to kiss me?”

“What? Of course I do,” he said softly. “Like I said, you just surprised me. I don’t - I’m trying really hard not to push you, y’know? You’ve been through… a lot. I just think maybe taking things slow - maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“You _are_ pushing me,” she huffed. “You’re pushing me away. I know I really screwed up, Raoul. I know that I did. I should’ve told you everything a long time ago and it was _wrong_ and I’m sorry, but you’re either going to give me a chance or you’re not. I don’t get it.”

“I’m not trying to push you away,” he said softly, leaning against the back of one of the kitchen chairs and looking at her carefully. “Christine, you don’t know what you want. I want you to know what you want. Everything - what you’ve been through can really mess with your head. I want you to be in a good spot.”

“So you think I’m damaged or broken or maybe you think I’m stupid - yeah, that’s better.”

A deep crease formed between his eyebrows. “Do you want me to kiss you, Christine?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she huffed.

He made his way to her slowly, framed her face between his too-warm palms, tilted her chin up and finally, _finally_ , he kissed her.

It was lackluster and disappointing. He pulled back too quickly, it was too gentle, too delicate, and Christine thought maybe she might hate him a little bit too.

Instead of telling him that, she just caught him like she had when he first walked in, forcing him back down to her. If he wouldn’t kiss her the way she wanted, she would just have to show him what it was she craved. This time, he didn’t pull away. He kissed her back, his fingers slid back, digging gently against the back of her neck.

When his hands began to roam just a little bit, she tried to turn her thoughts off. She pushed away every thought that told her it was wrong. She twisted her fingers in the collar of his shirt and pulled herself closer to him. She bit at his bottom lip and when he pulled away, almost breathless with his hands on her hips, she was nearly proud of herself.

“Slow down,” he said softly.

“I know what I want,” she huffed.

“Yeah.” One of his hands traveled up, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “I know you do, Christine. If you know what you want - I won’t say no. Just slow down. For me.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, “of course.”

It wasn’t a promise she could keep.

She wondered if this was the kind of power that Erik felt with her - if maybe that was what drove him on so relentlessly. It was a sort of powerful feeling, taking the lead from Raoul. He made no other protests against her desperate touch and by the time they made it to the bedroom she already couldn’t remember where his shirt had gone.

There was nothing romantic or slow about it. It was pure desperation; that was the only thing she felt when she pushed him down on the mattress on his black and climbed on top of him, when she took him in her hand and watch the way his eyelids fluttered with her touch. He stopped her, once, only to roll a condom over himself, and when it was done she still fought to keep him on his back.

It was warmth and fullness and nothing but slick skin and teeth. She dragged her nails against his chest and he caught her wrists gently with a pained hiss - he still didn’t stop her, didn’t slow her, his warm palms sat uselessly on her hips while she _used_ him. And that’s exactly what it was in the moment - the warmth of his body and the familiarity of touch. She wanted to open his skin and crawl inside of him, to live in that moment of instinct and lust, to let her brain turn off and simply follow her body. It was simple there. Easy.

The only movement he made was to rub at her with the tip of his finger, in that spot just above where they were joined, and when she _did_ shatter there was a blissful moment of silence in her head that she hadn’t had in weeks.

When it was over, after he coaxed her - limp and exhausted in every sense of the word - guiding her with his palms until he, too, found his relief, she rolled off of him without a word. Neither of them spoke. The room was filled with nothing but the sound of their heavy breathing, just out of sync enough to irritate her.

Christine laid silently beside him for a long moment, staring up at the plain white ceiling while she tried to catch her breath. She wasn’t sure what she felt - emptiness more than anything. The urge to run, maybe. Trapped.

After a long moment she rolled over on her side and reached for him, propping herself up on her elbow and running her fingers through the light hair on his chest, grounding herself with the feeling of his warm, slightly slick skin. “I think it would be okay if you started sleeping here again,” she said eventually. “It’s your room and it’s been real nice of you to let me use it like this. If you want I can move to the couch or we can… share, I guess.”

He didn’t answer her. Instead he simply wrapped his arm around her and pulled her down to him, resting his chin on top of her head. She wasn’t sure what to make of his silence. Part of her was afraid that he was upset with her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked eventually, his words practically a sigh.

She chewed on her lip and twisted a particularly long hair on his chest around her finger gently. “About what?”

“That,” he said softly. “Anything.”

“No,” she breathed.

He ran his warm palm along her naked back, rubbing at muscles she wasn’t sure would ever loosen again. “If it’s what _you_ want, I’ll start sleeping here again,” he said eventually. “But I’m not going to let you sleep on the couch.”

She nodded against his chest and sighed her relief. “I think I’d like to try it,” she answered. “Get back to normal.”

He shifted under her, grasping the edge of the crooked sheets and pulling them over both of them. “You’re shivering,” he said, almost apologetically. “I think we’ve both got a lot of healing to do. We can do it together, but only if you let me in, Christine.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I promise. I just… need a little bit of time.”

He silently buried his lips in her hair and she clenched her eyes shut, trying her best to feel his warmth and push away the strange disappointment she felt with it.


	27. Chapter 27

# Chapter 27

They lived quietly.

The neighbors never bothered them. They didn’t get in loud fights or play loud music. The flash of the television always stopped at a more than reasonable hour. The only visitor that had passed through the doors was Meg; they went out together only twice in the first month.

Erik was jealous.

It wasn’t jealousy of the boy for having her. He was jealous of _Christine_. He was jealous of the almost easy smile he had witnessed from halfway across the parking lot, jealous of the color in her cheeks, jealous that when she laid down at night she could do so with the simple knowledge that the person next to her wasn’t fully repulsed at the mere _thought_ of her touch.

It was everything he wanted. A tiny apartment would be enough for him; a beat-up old car, a simple life. With her. He could’ve done it for her if it was what she wanted. He would’ve done anything for her in all honesty, if she had only spoken up a bit more.

Instead he was practically living out of his car, stalking the parking lot and moving spots every few hours to try to avoid notice. It mostly seemed to work. People were far less observant than they wanted to believe that they were; face in a cellphone, kid on their hip, a walk that they took every day was almost burned into muscle memory. So long as he actually switched the car off he found that most didn’t even give him a second glance.

There was only one person that seemed to pay him any attention at all; a little girl with a mother that reminded him far too much of his own. A child too young to be walking alone, yet her mother would unclip her from the car seat, plant her feet on the hot asphalt and never even offer her a hand. The little girl always waved at him; he waved back. He had come to learn their schedule nearly as well as he had learned Christine’s non-schedule. There was something… humanitarian in it. The girl couldn’t have been older than three but it made him feel good all the same, simply being noticed and acknowledged by someone else passing along on their own day.

He had honestly tried. Perhaps not for long enough but he tried, for a full seven days, to continue on with his life without her. He convinced himself that he had been perfectly fine without her for most of his life and he would be again; he hadn’t found it in him to actually find a partner organically. The seven-dollar whore he managed to find smelled like cheap perfume and cigarettes; a pretty girl, certainly, with dark eyes and dark hair - as far from his Christine as he could find - but she was sour and far too enthusiastic and if he was completely honest, he wanted to die more when he was finished with her than he had when his desperation led him to find her.

He didn’t remember her name. It was a rule of his when he first began exploring the wonders that money could buy him; he was paying for the experience, not the person.

He wasn’t quite sure how he satiated himself on that for so long. Perhaps it was because it was all he knew then.

It felt wrong; not in the physical sense - it was no different than many of his casual encounters - but there was a certain kind of unpleasant guilt that lingered. He couldn’t pin down what exactly it was; Christine wasn’t waiting around for him and he was almost certain that, given the circumstances, few would call it cheating, but it almost felt like it was.

It left an unpleasant taste and he almost found it more productive to sit in the parking lot and stare at the billowing curtain in the boy’s living room. When he tried to compose he found that he only ended up pacing and tearing pages from his books. He _tried_. He honestly did. She was still stuck in the forefront of his mind.

The only time he found any peace was when he was near her. So he sat in the parking lot and watched.

And one day, his phone buzzed. The text message was from an unfamiliar number and it was simple, only two words; _I’m sorry._

The screen dimmed. It went black and he stared up at the window of the apartment.

—

“You really don’t want to talk about it?”

Christine stared down at her nails in her lap. They were ragged; bitten and picked at. They looked terrible. She picked at the skin on the side of her thumb nail, pulling gently on the hangnail there. “I really don’t,” she said eventually. “I just want to forget about it and move on with my life.”

“Raoul isn’t here,” Meg coaxed quietly. “I won’t tell him a word of it - Christine, you have to talk to someone. You haven’t been the same. Even you know it.”

Christine blinked, running her finger over the hangnail. A single drop of blood formed and she could feel the tenseness in her forehead. Everything was tense. She felt like a violin string, pulled just to the edge of snapping. She almost wished someone would be kind enough to finish the job.

“He hasn’t told me anything,” Meg said. “Not really. I don’t know what’s going on with you or what you’ve been through but… you aren’t okay, Chris. I don’t need the details to know that much.”

“I’m not a liar,” she said, looking up at Meg. “I’m a lot of things but I’m not that.”

Meg’s eyebrows pulled together. Christine wasn’t sure she had ever seen her look so concerned. “I definitely didn’t say that you are.”

“You don’t have to,” Christine answered, going back to picking at her hangnail. “I know what you think of me… I know what he thinks of me. It’s okay if you do. I know it’s not true.”

“All I think is that you’re my friend and you’re hurting,” Meg said softly. “Chris - whatever it was that happened, it isn’t your fault.”

“We fight a lot,” Christine said, tugging at the irritating loose skin. “Argue, I guess… I haven’t been great. I know I’m not fun to be around right now. I just wish things were different. We used to be happy together, y’know? Now we argue. All the time. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You’re bleeding,” Meg pointed out. Her voice was soft, so irritatingly soft, like Christine was a little kid that needed to be soothed. Christine was tired of a lot of things but she was mostly tired of that. “You could come stay with me for a little while. It might be good for you to get away. Get a little alone time without a relationship to worry about.”

“That’s what it is.” Christine couldn’t help the bitter tone that seeped into her words. “I’m not a charity case - you guys aren’t just gonna bounce me around like some kid stuck in the middle of a divorce. If he doesn’t want me here he can tell me and I’ll leave.”

“He does want you here, Christine,” Meg reassured her. “He really does. You need to do something for you, though, not for him, not for that creepy old man - it’s okay to do something for you. It isn’t selfish.”

“Don’t call him that,” she snapped, finally pulling the hangnail loose. Blood bubbled up in a perfect line where it had been; she hardly felt the sting of it anymore. “You don’t know anything about him - or me, for that matter. Nothing gives you the right to say stuff like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Meg said gently. “I didn’t mean-”

“To upset me?” Christine cut her off with a half-laugh. “Yeah. No one does, apparently. You’re all tiptoeing around me like - like I’m some little kid that doesn’t understand anything. I’m not dumb, Meg. I don’t want to be treated like I am. Not anymore. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Fine,” Meg said, sitting up just a little straighter. “Stop picking at your nails and avoiding it then. You’re acting like a kid, Christine. You’re lashing out, you’re not doing anything around here, you won’t even try to open a goddamn book and help yourself. What is it? Do you love him?”

Meg didn’t look as carefree as she had when Christine met her a few months before. It was one of the reasons she tried not to look at her - she knew that a lot of it was her fault. “Who?”

“… either one of them.”

Christine went silent for a long minute. She brushed her thumb over the small pool of blood, smearing it on the side of her finger. “I don’t know,” she finally offered, glancing up at Meg. “I used to see something with Raoul. I really did. He’s a great guy, Meg. A great guy and I think - I really think that he deserves more than me. It kind of scares me. I want to see something with him but I can’t even see anything with myself right now.”

“I want to know you,” Meg said slowly. “You said that I don’t - I think you’re right. It’s not like you’re the easiest person to get to know. I really won’t judge you - whatever happened happened. It’s in the past. But you have to get it out or you really are going to lose it.”

Christine folded her hands together, pressing the pad of her finger firmly against the new wound she made. “What exactly has Raoul told you?” she asked, looking at Meg carefully. “You say nothing but you seem to know a whole lot more than nothing. Lying to me isn’t gonna make me want to tell you anything.”

Meg sighed. “He didn’t tell me anything specific. Just that there was something with… him… and that it was less than great.”

“He’s not Voldemort, you can say his name,” Christine said quietly. “Erik was - I don’t know. There’s a lot that I still don’t really understand and I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it. Sometimes I think maybe it’s better if I just try to forget it all.”

“Do you think you can do that?” Meg asked, leaning forward in her seat and resting her elbows on her knees. “Forget about it, I mean. I think that’s kind of a lot to ask, Christine. Whatever happened it was still a part of your life.”

“I think I can try to,” she answered, lifting her finger to see if blood was still flowing. “If I need to talk about it I promise I will, Meg. I promise I’ll talk to you. You’re a real good friend. I’m sorry I’ve been kind of a mess… but I think I need to be right now. Do something for me, right?”

“… yeah,” she agreed softly. “Just don’t let me worry about you too much, okay? Raoul and I - we just want you to be okay. Both of us.”

Christine gave her half a nod. “Do you think you can help me study a little bit?” she asked, desperate to change the subject. “If I want to pass my GED I’m gonna have to start somewhere. It’s just a little overwhelming.”

Meg perked up at that. “Of course, Chris. Anytime.”

XXX

Christine wasn’t sure how exactly Raoul talked her into putting in job applications. It seemed like a complete waste of time. Even the fast food places said right on their websites that a high school diploma or a GED were required. She didn’t have either. She had nothing to put on a resume. Even volunteer work she had done when she was younger couldn’t be used. She was someone else entirely now.

“You aren’t going to get them, babe,” Raoul said when she pointed out how dumb it seemed. “It’ll be good for you though - it’s no pressure at all. It’ll just get you used to it and any interview experience is good. I don’t expect you to start working tomorrow.”

Raoul didn’t ask a whole lot of her. She felt like a leech. He paid for everything and still did the dishes. He was patient and kind and gentle, everything any girl would feel lucky to have. He never asked her for anything so she thought it probably wasn’t so much to waste some time clicking through pre-employment questionnaires for jobs she’d never get. They fought enough about stupid things for her to fight him about that.

The fact that she was still lying to him wasn’t lost on her. He gave her everything and he still didn’t even know her real name. Sometimes she felt guilty about it. Other times she wondered if she really could be this other person, if she could just live with who she had become and forget about who she had been. She almost told him at least three times but she always backed out before she could say it. She was afraid to. Afraid that he’d be angry. Afraid that he’d be disgusted to know that he had been hooking up with a sixteen year old. Afraid that he would tell someone and she’d get dragged back to that terrible group home that felt more like a prison. A clear conscious wasn’t worth her freedom. It was something she was pretty sure she would have to live with for the rest of her life.

It isn’t your fault. That’s what everyone told her. That nothing was her fault, that she didn’t deserve the bad things that happened or to be in pain. She wasn’t sure if she believed it. Erik had promised to let her go. She hadn’t seen him again. As far as she knew, he was gone and she was still lying. How could it not be her fault when she was still carrying on the story he had written for her?

If Raoul kicked her out, the only place she could go was back to Erik. He was the closest thing to family she had since her dad died and something about that tore her heart just a little further. Mrs Valerius was a nice lady, one of her favorite foster parents, but even she knew that Erik was right. If it wasn’t for the small checks she received from the welfare services, she wouldn’t have kept her around. She was a nice lady but that’s all she was - she wasn’t family.

Sometimes, Christine picked absently at her skin and she didn’t even realize it until she started to bleed. She never remembered doing that before. Not even when she had been with Erik.

When she started putting in applications, Raoul bought her a phone. He promised her that he paid under a hundred dollars for it. It was a cheap, outdated smartphone. It wasn’t on a plan - it was paid for with plastic cards that gave her minutes and text messages. Christine told him that she didn’t need one but he insisted.

“If you put in applications you have to have a phone number to give them and we aren’t always together. Besides, I don’t think a little privacy would be bad for you.”

He helped her set it up. He showed her how to dial the number to activate the cards and set it up so that it connected to his internet. He showed her how to set up a passcode but never asked her what it was and looked away when she set it.

He trusted her and something about that broke her heart a little bit too. Because he trusted her and she was lying to him.

Christine knew that she wasn’t okay but she wasn’t even sure where to begin getting back to okay. So she submitted the stupid job applications and threw herself into the books Raoul brought home for her. GED study guides and even ones for national tests, anything that she could get her hands on to distract herself from her own thoughts. It didn’t help much.

She was absolutely miserable and she wasn’t sure she even remembered how not to be.

It was four days before she cracked and broke Raoul’s trust entirely; she downloaded the exact same app that she had to contact Raoul once and picked a new number. She reasoned that there wasn’t so much danger in it because she was completely in control - she could delete it in less than thirty seconds and Erik would have no way to find her real phone number.

_I’m sorry._

It was stupid but it was the only thing she could come up with; she wanted to say it to everyone. Erik, Raoul, Meg, even herself sometimes. She was sorry for a lot of things but she was mostly sorry that she was the way that she was; that she seemed to soak up misery and drag everyone down with her. Raoul looked more and more tired every day. She was exhausted and exhausting and she had no idea how to fix it. If she was honest she had been this way for as long as she remembered; she never had to fix anything before because Erik seemed like he had been more than happy with the broken thing that she was.

Raoul wasn’t.

He tried. He tried really hard to be patient and kind and if she was honest, he did a pretty good job of pretending. It was easier every day to see his discontent, though.

Her phone didn’t buzz until she had given up on a response and set it on the edge of the table, going back to the book that was starting to blur even though she was wearing her glasses.

_So am I, Christine._

It was a simple answer and she wasn’t sure what else she might have expected. She could pretend like she was surprised he knew exactly who the random phone number belonged to but if she was honest, she just wasn’t. Nothing really surprised her anymore, especially when it came to him. She briefly wondered if he even knew anyone else that would apologize to him; it had always been so weirdly lonely, even when they were together. No guests, rare phone calls in foreign languages and the laptop that he always closed the lid on when she came into the room.

She had married him and she didn’t really know a thing about him.

She started typing and stopped again at least four times, deleting it all. Words never came easily to her.

_Are you okay?_

She stared at his message, and then she did something that she hadn’t done in a long time; she told the truth. _I don’t know._

_I miss you._

His messages were disjointed and if she hadn’t spent so much time with him, she might’ve wondered if he was even reading what she wrote. But she had and she knew, without a doubt, that he absorbed every word she said and held onto it tightly. It was very rare that he said the right thing, but there was no question that he listened.

_You cried. The last night you were home. I should have seen it coming. I’ve always hated watching you cry. I do want you to be okay, Christine. I always have. You don’t have to believe it for it to be true._

She chewed on the inside of her lip, staring at his message. Anger was probably the right response but she didn’t feel it. Instead she wondered if maybe it was true, if maybe he was just so completely disconnected that he honestly didn’t understand. _Sometimes I want to hate you and when I can’t, I hate myself a little bit more._

There was a long gap in his responses and Christine glanced at the door and then over at the flashing numbers on the stove. She had about an hour before Raoul would be home.

_I was never fair to you, from the very beginning. I would deserve it if you did._

She set the phone face down on the table and stared at the book. It took her an embarrassingly long time to realize that the words weren’t blurry because of her poor eyesight; she had no idea when she had started to cry. Sometimes she was tempted to smash her head against the edge of the table for a few minutes of silence. Her head was busy and loud and it was too difficult to follow her own train of thought anymore.

_Buzz._

_Buzz._

It was on the third vibration that she flipped the phone over. She ignored the two paragraphs that he had written, typing without bothering to re-read any of it and hitting send before she could give it a second thought.

_It’s loud and lonely and I miss you too, and that hurts. You hurt me so badly. I shouldn’t miss you. You were always the one person I could talk to and I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t sleep. I hardly eat. You were terrible to me and I don’t understand how I can feel anything at all for you, but I do. Sometimes I can’t breathe. I think that there must be something really really wrong with me sometimes. I think Raoul does too. And I think I get it, just a little bit, the things you did to me because I think maybe I might do some of them to him and it’s scary. Everything is scary. Being here, thinking of coming home. I think maybe I’ll always be unhappy no matter what. I just want quiet._

_I can make it quiet, Christine._

She was barely able to make out the sentence through her blurred vision. When she couldn’t bring herself to delete the application, she silenced the notifications and closed it, resting her pounding head in the crook of her arm on the table.


	28. Chapter 28

She was on the move.

Constantly.

Erik was finding it harder and harder to keep track of her. Not that he would lose her; he almost thought that he couldn’t if he tried to.

There was a loose pattern to it that made no sense; midweek was the most active, Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s in particular. She was up and out nearly an hour after the boy left and always home at least half an hour before he returned. He would like to ask her what exactly she was doing but it was impossible; after the small handful of text messages she had stopped responding to him entirely. The only logical conclusion he could draw was that whatever she was doing, she didn’t want her housemate to know about it. There was something halfway encouraging in that; Christine wasn’t a good secret keeper and she had more of a conscience than anyone he had ever known. The fact that she was keeping secrets tugged her just _that_ much closer to him.

She visited a pawn shop and walked out with a handful of cash. He didn’t see her spend it; she loitered around businesses in strip mall parking lots and never so much as bought a coffee.

She was looking for something but he wasn’t sure what exactly it was.

When her search ran too late, she would seem disappointed but she would head home anyway, a bit more deflated than she had been when she started her day.

Sometimes he wondered what her reaction would be if he pulled up beside her. If she would let him drive her back to that boy’s apartment or if she even trusted him enough to get into the car.

It wasn’t worth testing, so he didn’t.

He would rather piece together the breadcrumb trail she had been laying for him.

* * *

Having the ring off of the chain around her neck was simultaneously freeing and terrifying.

She hadn’t realized how heavy it was, how accustomed she had become to the way the chain pulled against the back of her neck. There was a naked feeling left behind without it.

She hadn’t been able to bring herself to take it off of her finger for a week. Raoul hadn’t said a word about it but he eyed it often. His relief when it vanished from her finger had been visible.

Christine still couldn’t bring herself to get rid of it entirely. She often wore it on a chain around her neck, tucked into the collar of her shirt. Raoul couldn’t see it and she could feel it and touch it. It had quickly become a masochistic sort of comfort item for her.

She found that she still reached for it sometimes, after it was gone. It was the only tangible thing that still showed proof of her ties to Erik. She was sure that she could’ve gotten more money for it - there was no way that she believed the pawn-shop owner when he told her that the small gem inlays around the outside were cubic zirconium and not diamonds, the one fact that she was absolutely sure of was that Erik would never give her anything ‘fake’ - but she wanted it gone so badly that she simply took what they gave her and made no arguments.

It was still more money than she had ever actually handled herself, and having the small stash of bills tucked away in secret was an odd feeling. She had never actually had her own money before. She had no idea what she would spend it on but it was enough to get by for at least a few days if she ever had to. Knowing that she had some cushion and didn’t have to rely entirely on Raoul was a relief, even if he never found out about it. Things seemed just a little less scary with the crisp hundred dollar bills.

It was a good feeling, and she hoped that maybe she could actually get a job soon. She felt almost independent, even though she knew that was ridiculous. She knew that, at most, she could only get by for a few days but it was _something_.

She hid a few of the bills in the toes of her shoes and carried a very small amount with her on her daily excursions. It was nice, sometimes, to be outside, to see people other than Raoul and Meg and something other than the blank white walls of his small apartment. She didn’t tell anyone where she went or that she went out at all, and if she was honest she wasn’t really sure why. Something about it felt almost dangerous, in an oddly thrilling way. No one needed to know. No one owned her.

Bad things happened sometimes, but she had already been through plenty of bad and she was still standing perfectly fine. Sometimes she wondered if the sensation she was walking on was some sort of suicidal high; she just didn’t care anymore.

Raoul told her that she seemed happier. He was glad that she smiled more, that she laughed, but she wasn’t really sure if it was happy so much as it was exhaustion.

If it’s what he saw, she wouldn’t correct him.

She didn’t accomplish much other than stretching her legs. She window shopped and sometimes she would sit at the park that she found for a few hours. It was a pretty park. There were big purple flowers and there were always people around. She didn’t feel as alone there as she did at the apartment, even though she never spoke to anyone. No one looked at her like she needed to be watched, no one asked her if she was okay or shoved study guides at her. To them she was just another person they passed on their day. She was just like everyone else.

She was always home before him, but on that day, Raoul’s kiss was detached, barely a peck on the lips.

“… how was class?” Christine asked, playing nervously with the hem of her shirt.

“Fine.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. He was _never_ short with her. She swallowed and watched him make his way across the room, tossing his backpack onto the kitchen table. “Are you sure it was okay?” she asked, her voice small and quiet.

“ _My_ day was fine,” he said, turning on the faucet and washing his hands at the kitchen sink. “How about we talk about yours - how was _your_ day, Christine?”

“… it was okay,” she answered. “Nothing exciting - Raoul, what’s -“

“That’s funny,” he said, grabbing the dish towel to dry his hands. “Y’know, Meg stopped by earlier. She said you weren’t here. She was going to take you to lunch. I had to talk her down from calling the police to look for you. So where’d you go?”

Christine crossed her arms over her chest. “Am I not allowed to leave now?”

“What?” he asked, leaning back against the counter. “Of course you are! I’ve never, ever tried to control you, Christine. It just - sometimes it feels like I don’t even know you. I’m constantly worried sick. I can’t tell if you’re happy or if one day I’m going to open the door and find you dead in the bathtub and I… will you tell me next time? When you’re gonna be out?”

“I go to the park,” she said slowly. “I go to the park and I sit on the bench and I look at the flowers. Sometimes I’ll wave back if someone waves at me. Is that what you’re worried about? That someone might talk to me?”

“Of course not,” he sighed. “It doesn’t bother me if you want to go to the park. It really doesn’t. I’d go crazy sitting in here all day too. I just want to know that you’re safe. You just - you have to tell _someone_. If something happened we wouldn’t even begin to know where to look and that terrifies me, Christine.”

“You aren’t my dad,” she said, her voice low and gruff. "You don’t own me.”

“I never claimed to be,” he said softly. He had deflated some. “I just worry about you.”

“I can take care of myself,” she snapped, squeezing her arms.

Raoul stared back at her blankly, and then he moved, covering his face with his hands while he took a deep breath. “I need to know if you’re seeing him again, Christine,” he said, running his hands up and through his hair. “I need you to be honest with me.”

“I _am_ being honest!” she insisted. “Today I - I walked through the strip mall and I sat at the park. Alone. I don’t understand why everyone thinks I’m a goddamn liar! I’m not lying, Raoul. I was alone. I haven’t seen him. I swear I haven’t.”

“Okay,” he sighed.

“Okay,” she repeated evenly, staring at him. “That’s it? Okay? You accuse me of - I don’t even know, cheating on you? And just… okay?”

“I don’t know what else to say,” he said softly.

“Say that you trust me,” she breathed. “Say that you believe me - say that you don’t and kick me out. Say anything but… okay.”

“Okay,” he repeated slowly. “I don’t know if I believe you, Christine. I don’t know if I can. I hardly feel like I _know_ you. But I don’t want you to leave.”

She swallowed, rubbing her arms with her palms. “I think I’m going to go out now,” she said shakily. She could feel the tears forming and at that moment, the last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of him. “I don’t know where I’m going so I can’t tell you but I - I’ll be alone, Raoul. I’ve been trying really hard not to mess this up and I don’t - I’m just gonna go for a walk.”

“Please don’t,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Christine. I don’t -“

“I’ll be back soon,” she said, walking backwards toward the door. “I promise I will. I just - need to go for a walk, okay?”

“It’ll be dark soon,” he argued quietly. “Please just stay. I don’t - I trust you, okay? I believe you, Christine. Just stay.”

“Are you going to make me?” she asked softly, one hand on the doorknob.

He looked at her closely, almost like he had to weigh his response. He sighed. “I can’t,” he answered slowly. “You’re perfectly capable. Just… be safe.”

She turned the handle and slipped out, pulling the door closed carefully behind her. She did her best not to slam it - the last thing she wanted was to draw all of their neighbors attention to their personal arguments. Not that any of them paid much attention to begin with.

If Erik had thought she’d be in danger, he never would have let her walk out of the door alone. That thought was what made her hesitate, loitering around near the apartment, wondering if he would come after her.

He never did. It should have been relieving but it was more disheartening than anything else. Sometimes Christine wondered if he actually cared about her or if it was something he said because he thought he was supposed to. It probably wasn’t fair; she only thought that because sometimes she thought that might be what she was doing.

By the time her feet carried her back to her favorite little park, it actually was getting dark. She sat on the same bench that she always did, watching the sky turn pink, then orange, then red. It was pretty, the kind of thing she thought she should take the time to appreciate more often.

She wasn’t sure what it was that spooked her. Something did. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and she could feel the way her pulse picked up. It was Raoul’s fault. He made her paranoid. She was sure that was all it was. As if to prove it to herself she stood up and made her way furter into the park. She was familiar with the footpaths so the fact that she was losing daylight didn’t worry her too much.

It was about thirty feet down the path that she heard a snap behind her and started to run. Too afraid to go _toward_ the noise, she ran further into the thickening foliage.

Now there was no mistaking the fact that what she heard behind her were heavy footsteps, nearly running to keep pace with her.

The weight that slammed against her knocked her off her feet and she screamed, kicking at whatever was grasping at her ankle.

She heard a grunt and scrambled back to her feet, running toward the only light she could see.

It wasn’t the path out, to her dismay. Just a small brick bathroom. She hesitated, and this time she was pushed, slammed face-first against the rough brick by large, warm hands.

“Shhh.”

She felt the breath just behind her ear. It was hot and uncomfortable. He smelled like alcohol. When she screamed, his hand twisted in her hair and he scraped her cheek against the brick.

“Shhh,” he repeated, leaning his weight against her.

She screamed again.

She heard a crack, her head bounced, and suddenly she couldn’t scream anymore. She slumped against the brick wall, her fingers pulling weakly at the hand around her throat. Christine gritted her teeth, trying to fight through the sluggishness.

She was going to die, just like this, alone behind the ugly brick bathrooms in the little park she had come to love where no one would find her. Something about it almost seemed like a fitting end.

The only sound she could make when she felt the button of her jeans give way to clumsy fingers was a squeak. She pulled and kicked and made it as difficult as she could but the only thing that she really accomplished was pushing her jeans further down her legs for the man that grunted and had hardly said a word to her. Warm, warm fingertips forced their way beneath her underwear.

She managed to find one last squeaking scream in herself when two fingers pushed quickly and roughly inside of her.

If she was honest, she didn’t hear anything but ringing in her ears before the man’s weight disappeared from over her, against her, _inside_ of her. There was another crack, a grunt, half of a sentence, a sickening snaping sound and a dull thud. She slumped back against the brick wall, sliding slowly to the ground. Her head was heavy and pounding and her legs were shaking too hard to hold herself up. She should run, she knew that, but she could hardly keep her eyes open. Her throat felt constricted and puffy even though nothing was wrapped around it anymore. When she coughed, it felt like she rubbed sandpaper against the inside of her already raw throat.

Whatever touched her cheek was incredibly cold and she huffed out a breath, pulling away from it.

“I need you to open your eyes,” a smooth voice said. She recognized it but her ears were ringing so badly she hardly heard it. “Christine, I _need_ you to open your eyes. Please.”

Desperation was edging into the voice and the cold was against her cheek again. She felt dizzy and she couldn’t catch her breath.

“Kitten,” the voice whispered.

She forced her eyes open, staring up at him. It was all blurry and she vaguely wondered who he was today. It was the first lucid thought that came to her. She couldn’t tell - it was too dark to make out any of the details in his mask.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “Did you hit your head?”

“I don’t know.” Her raspy voice surprised her and it ended with a cough as she tried to pull air past her swelled throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That I wasn’t faster, that I didn’t - fuck, I should’ve been here, I should have - I’m sorry, Christine.”

She blinked, wishing that his image would come into focus for her, and she was pretty sure she frowned as she stared at his wavering outline. “M’dizzy,” she complained, unable to stop the slur in her words. She shivered as the breeze kicked up and she felt the chilled air brush against her naked thighs. “Cold,” she whispered.

He was moving, pulling away from her, and in a panic she grabbed his sleeve in her trembling fingers.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly. “I’m just going to help you pull your pants up, Christine. That’s all. I promise. I’m staying right here with you.”

She let out a huff and he settled back down in front of her.

“It’s okay,” he said eventually. “You don’t have to let go. You’re safe now. I promise that you are.”

He moved slowly and the only thing his hands touched were her jeans, pulling them carefully back up her cold legs. “I wanna go home,” she whispered hoarsely.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know that you do, and I’ll take you home, Christine. Anywhere you want to go, I’ll take you. But I need to make sure that you’re okay first. Let me do that much. Please.”

She pitched forward with little warning, falling against his chest and wrapping her trembling arms around him. She was pretty sure her nails were digging into his back but he didn’t complain about it, didn’t stop her from pushing her overheated face against the crook of his neck.

His palm smoothed her hair slowly and he shushed her. It took that for her to even hear her own hiccuping sob. “I’ve got you,” he said softly. “Nothing else can hurt you, Christine. I’m right here.”

She twisted her hands in his shirt. “You’ve been following me.” Her accusation wasn’t much of one - it was just a weak, wavering statement.

He didn’t answer her. Instead his hand made another pass from the top of her head to her neck. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “Not much, but - I’m going to need to look at it, Christine. Make sure that it’s just a scrape and not more serious.”

“I want to go _home_ ,” she croaked, her forehead pressed firmly against his throat.

“I have to take you to a hospital,” he said slowly. “You’re slurring, your pupils are dilated, I think you might have a concussion. I need to take you to a hospital first and then you can call your boy and he can take you home, Christine. I promise.”

She let out a shaky breath and dug her nails in just a bit harder. In that exact moment, she knew that it wasn’t what she meant. She wanted to go _home_. Not to the apartment, not to Raoul and Meg fussing over her and insisting that she was losing her mind. Home. She wanted to lay in the bed that was way too big for her and stare at the impersonal white walls, she wanted to walk through the frustratingly immaculate house and wonder if he was even still living there, she wanted to hear his music again, forget about it all. She wanted to go _home_ and she was too terrified of it to correct him.

“Fire,” he said softly. “If you want someone to come, you scream fire. It doesn’t matter what it actually is. Do you understand?”

She nodded, barely, against his throat and he sighed. His hand settled against the back of her head and she felt the gentle press of his fingers as he probed it carefully. “Did you kill him?” she whispered. She could look but in all honesty, she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to peek over his shoulder and see whatever might be lying behind him.

She could feel his even breaths under her weight, the steady way his chest expanded and contracted. “I will always do what I have to to keep you safe, Christine,” he answered vaguely. “I did whatever will help you sleep tonight.”

She shivered and his hand slid down, resting between her shoulder blades. He held her there for another few minutes, resting his chin on top of her head.

“Do you think you can stand?” His voice was thick. “We shouldn’t stay here much longer if we can help it. I want to get you out of here.”

“I can try,” she whispered.

In the end she was able to, with some help from him. Her shaky legs were just manageable enough with his arm wrapped around her to hold her up.

“Eyes ahead, Christine.”

She didn’t argue with him. If she looked then she would _know_ that he was dead and she would never forget it.

He didn’t say much of anything as they made the trek through the park. It was a lot different at night than it was during the day. She was pretty sure that she was going to have to find another place to spend her days. She wasn’t sure that it would ever be the same in the light either.

“Did you get a new car?” she asked quietly when they finally made it to the parking lot, wrapping her arms around herself and staring at the ugly blue thing while she waited for him to unlock it.

“It’s a rental,” he said, clicking the unlock button on the remote. “And I hate it, for the record. It’s a terrible color.”

He opened the door for her and waited for her to climb inside, closing her door and making his way to his. The motor was loud and he reached forward, turning the volume down on the radio before he looked over at her.

“Are you okay?” His voice was serious, dripping with concern and the way that he was looking at her cemented the fact that he wanted a real answer. “I don’t mean - not tonight. Of course after _that_ \- but in general. Are you okay?”

“I think so,” she answered, her voice small and quiet. “Most of the time, at least.”

“You got in the car.”

She blinked, looking over at him. “What?”

“Nothing, I just…” he trailed off with a sigh. “I think you’re going to be okay but I’d still like it if you’d get checked out. I think you might be in a bit of shock.”

“Okay,” she answered simply, leaning her head against the window and staring across the parking lot.

The quiet was comfortable as he drove and she stared out the window the entire way. It wasn’t as late as she thought it was - plenty of people were still out and about. The world felt remarkably unreal at the moment.

He parked near the building and sat quietly for a long moment, his finger playing with the keychain that was hanging off of the ignition key. “I can come in with you, if you want,” he said eventually. “If I do, I can’t stop your boy from finding out. I will have to tell them that I’m your husband if you want me to stay with you. It’s up to you, Christine.”

She swallowed around the thick lump in her throat. It would change everything, and there would be absolutely no going back. Even if he _could_ , she would never be able to bring herself to ask Raoul to forgive her for going back. And that’s exactly what it would look like to him. Like she had gotten into trouble and run back to Erik. Raoul had put way too much money, time and effort in to ask him to forgive it. “Will you just… can you just make sure that I make it inside, please?” she asked shakily.

“Of course,” he answered. “Do you have a phone?”

“… I left it on the counter.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Do you know your boy’s phone number?”

She blinked, staring at her hands in her lap. She knew Erik’s by heart - she wasn’t sure why exactly she had memorized it, but she had. “No,” she admitted quietly.

Erik opened the center console, digging through it for a minute before he came up with a piece of paper. Christine could see the music staff printed on the back of it. She wondered if had been something he had written before it was turned to scrap.

“Here,” he said, scribbling ten digits on the scrap of paper. “Can you read that?”

She had the strangest sense of deja vu when she took the scrap from him and stared at the phone number. “Yeah. I can.”

“It’s his number,” he said slowly. “Just… let me know when you’ve made it home. Please. That you’re okay. That’s all I’ll ask for.”

* * *

_Home_.

He knew exactly what she meant when she used the word.

She wanted to go home.

She had only ever used the word in reference to the little suburban house they had shared.

She wanted to come home and he couldn’t let her. Not yet. He was halfway glad that she refused to let him come in with her; the body could only sit there for so long before someone stumbled upon it.

He had killed before. From time to time it was the only option available; when he was younger and more reckless he had taken some strange feeling of power from the act. He found that there was money to be had in it, an unexploited market that his odd skill set suited worryingly well.

He hadn’t killed in a long while. He was older now and it was more tedious and exhausting than anything. He had watched the development of technology and the risk of it far outweighed the benefits as the years passed. It was messy, dirty work and he didn’t have the patience for it.

He once told her that he would kill for her; he never imagined that he would actually have to.

When he said it, he was imagining his hands around the boy’s throat.

It had been a strange night for both of them.

Now he was sitting in the rental car, watching her limp across the parking lot, turning over the fact that she had just watched him kill someone and still asked him to keep her safe in his head. In all fairness, she had hit her head fairly hard.

He sat there until she made it through the electric doors. He sat there for a few minutes longer still, staring at the doors. Some of it was guilt, he thought. He watched the shadow follow her into the park, down through the winding footpaths, and he _should_ have been faster. The truth was, he wanted her to be scared. He wanted to save her. He _wanted_ her to ask to come home. It escalated so quickly.

She could have been dead by the time he found her and it was through mere chance and the clumsiness of her assailant that she wasn’t.

He would have killed her. It was all he could think about as he drove back to the ugly park, as he scanned the sidewalk for people and the light posts for cameras, as he parked his car far enough in the back of the lot that it wasn’t visible to the road and backed in beside an unruly bush.

The evening air was chilled and it was a long walk back to the secluded little place where he had found her. He took his time. The later it was by the time he made it back to the car, the better his chances of going unseen were. The only people that hung around places like this that late were the type that weren’t likely to say anything.

For a while he simply stood there, staring at the body on the ground and scratching the back of his neck. “You couldn’t have done me the favor of being small, could you?” he sighed eventually, stooping down and rolling the figure onto it’s back. Erik used two gentle fingers to close his already drooping eyelids. “I could have brought her home tonight if it weren’t for you, you know… then again, I suppose if it weren’t for you she wouldn’t have wanted to come, would she? I am no better than you. Simply faster.”

He would fit, Erik decided. The most difficult part of it all would be getting him to the car. Aside from the scratch on the man’s face that Erik had to assume had come from Christine, there was no blood. While it was ridiculously inconvenient, it was the ideal circumstance when he had to move the body. And he did have to move it. He was fairly certain that Christine wouldn’t mention his own involvement, but he hadn’t the slightest idea what she _would_ say. He couldn’t simply leave it there or pull it deeper into the overgrown thicket.

There had been a time when physical activity hadn’t been a challenge for him. His time with Christine had made him soft; he hadn’t had an actual physical challenge in over a year. He hadn’t done much of anything that he was honestly concerned about getting caught at since she had walked into his life. The groan when he lifted the man onto his shoulder was involuntary.

He wasn’t a particularly fat man but he also wasn’t thin; he was far heavier than Christine and Erik muttered curses under his breath as he struggled with his burden. It certainly hadn’t been his plan for his evening when he woke that morning.

It took some manuvening, some complaining grunts and frustrating repositioning, but by the time Erik had managed to shut the trunk on him without any exposed fingertips he found himself relieved, almost accomplished in some way. It may have been a struggle but he certainly hadn’t lost it entirely.

From there it was all fairly simple; the car could pull directly into the garage, where he normally parked it regardess; then he had all the time in the world.

The benefit to always seeming suspicious was that his neighbors would never actually think anything was unusual. Suburbia had it’s drawbacks, but they were far fewer than he had tried to convince himself when he was younger.

A bathtub half-filled with lukewarm water and the hedge trimmers from the shelf in the garage would be a good enough start. He used his own bathtub - as tempting as it was to use the other bathroom, he couldn’t bear to. There was no doubt in his mind that Christine would be home and she would be horrified at the thought of a body in her bathtub - not that he would ever tell her it had been in the house at all.

His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms and he was wrist deep in the stranger’s mouth with a pair of pliers by the time his phone dinged, balanced carefully on the edge of the bathroom sink.

“A moment,” he said apologetically to his accomedating guest, dropping the third tooth into the bathtub with a small but satisfying splash before setting the pliers on the lip of the bathtub and running his bloodied hands against his pants. “Not that I suspect you mind much, hm?”

There was no answer, of course, and Erik ran his palms against his pants one more time before he reached for his phone.

_I’m home. I actually have been for a little while. I’m sorry that it took me so long. Raoul won’t let me out of his sight. I feel like a little kid again. I don’t know why I’m telling you. Anyway, thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you werent there so… thank you. For being there. Goodnight, Erik._

_Goodnight, Christine_ he typed. He looked at the message a few times before he sighed. _I love you_ he added on to the end before he hit send. Looking at his mess of a bathroom, he thought he had more than earned the right to say it that night.


	29. Chapter 29

Raoul didn’t say anything before he pulled her into his arms in the lobby of the hospital. She wanted to tell him that it hurt, that she was pretty sure her ribs were bruised and that she couldn’t breathe. Instead she hugged him back.

“Jesus,” he breathed, burying his lips in her hair. “I’m sorry, Christine. For what I said, for - anything. God, I’m so relieved to see you standing here.”

It wasn’t an I-told-you-so. Christine tightened her arms around him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. It was all she had in her. She was exhausted, mentally and physically. The invasive medical tests, the kind police man who had become a little not-so-kind when she didn’t want to talk to him. All she wanted at that point was one of the pain killers the pharmacy had prescribed her and to go to sleep. Raoul pushed her back suddenly, holding her at arms length, and she would be lying if she said it didn’t leave her a little dizzy.

“Babe,” he breathed. His fingers were gentle and impossibly light when they traced the ugly purple bruises that had formed in a ring around her throat. “Was it… him?”

If she wasn’t so overwrought she might have been angry about the implication. Instead she shook her head, just the smallest bit. “I didn’t know him,” she said quietly.

“Did he…” Raoul trailed off, almost like he was embarrased to ask his question.

“Someone came by and it spooked him off,” Christine lied, shivering at the memory of his hand against her.

“Thank God,” he breathed. “What about, well, everything else? What did the doctor say?”

“I’m real sore,” she admitted. “But they say I’ll be okay. Nothing permanent. I might have bruised ribs and they said I maybe might have a concussion. I just want to go home and go to bed, Raoul.”

He wouldn’t let go of her. Even when he did, his hand hovered over her arm, like he was afraid something was going to grab on to her and pull her away before he could stop it.

She wanted to tell him that she was fine, that he was being overdramatic, and then she remembered their conversation earlier and she felt too bad to. If he needed to fuss over her for a little while, she guessed she could let him.

He eyed the pill bottle in her hands and she held it tightly. She knew exactly why and even though she tried not to, she resented him a little bit for it. “It’s fine,” she said defensively. “My ribs are bruised, Raoul.”

He didn’t seem convinced but he didn’t try to to take them either. She satisfied herself with that.

When they got back to the apartment, he wasn’t much better.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to sleep with a concussion, Christine. I swear I’ve heard that before.”

She was really good at not being short with him. She remembered how scared she was when it was all happening and with the state she was in - the scrape on her face and her swelled eye, the bruises on her throat, the cuts on her palms - she looked like a disaster and she knew that he had to be imagining scenarios in his head that were seven times worse than what had actually happened.

She managed to at least sneak off to the bathroom, sending the text that Erik made her promise to before he let her get out of his car.

She never saw a reply. She always silenced the application after she used it.

When she managed to convince him to let her sleep, it was still restless. He woke her every hour “just to check”, and as irritating as it was, it was endearing too. She let herself press between his arms and curl against his chest.

* * *

_I’m going back to the park today._

Erik stared at the text message. He wasn’t sure what exactly to make of it; if it was an invitation or if she had just accepted the fact that he had no intention of actually leaving her alone and that he would find her regardless.

He wasn’t sure and there was no way to be sure of it.

It could have been some sort of trap, he supposed. Lure him out in the open to turn him over for all of his crimes - it certainly put her in a position of power that she had never really had before. The thought hardly even crossed his mind.

If she was going to twist a knife in his back she had certainly earned the right.

The body in the bathtub was gone; toothless, fingerless, eyeless, noseless, scattered among nature where it would likely be eaten and never pieced back together. The house had been bleached, the bathtub scrubbed and there wasn’t a hint left of the horror show that had occured.

It was the ideal time, really. He was more than confident that no one would come knocking at his door and when she walked through it, she wouldnt find a single thing amiss.

Hope probably shouldn’t have been what he dared to hold in his heart when he read the text message. He couldn’t help it.

If he didn’t know her so well, wasn’t connected to her so deeply that he had a nearly physical reaction when he was close to her, he wasn’t sure that he would have even recognized her. She was huddled over on the same bench she had always occupied on her trips, pulling the sleeves of an oversized hoodie over her fingers. He could hardly see the tease of her frizzy blonde hair peeking out from the edge of the hood.

When he sat beside her on the bench, she didn’t react at all. She continued to pick at the seam of her sleeve, staring down at her hands.

“Its very warm today,” he commented eventually, watching the way she twisted the fabric between her tense fingers when he spoke. “Are you cold?”

“It hides the bruises,” she answered quietly, finally shifting beside him. She sniffed and pulled her hands into her sleeves, wrapping her arms around her chest. “Do you love me?”

The tone matched her answer almost exactly. “Of course I do,” he answered gently. “I think I always will.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. She stared down at her own lap intensely. “What does it feel like?”

He cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Its difficult to explain,” he answered, trying his hardest to see her face without completely invading her.

“Is it scary?”

“I suppose it can be, sometimes,” he answered as she sniffed again.

“Will you please try?” she whispered. “To explain it.”

“Only if you’ll look at me.”

So she did. She tilted her chin up and fixed him with a blank look, mostly hidden by the shadow of her hood.

He frowned. He couldn’t help it. “Did they prescribe you something?” he asked, reaching for her chin.

She didn’t even flinch when he touched her, tilting her chin so that he could actually see her eyes. “For my ribs,” she mumbled. “They really hurt still.”

“What is it?”

She shrugged slowly, blinking up at him. “I think it starts with a v. I cant remember.”

“You aren’t supposed to drink with it,” he said, barely catching the faintest hint of vodka when she spoke.

“It isn’t quiet but its close,” she said softly.

“It _is_ scary,” he said, leaning closer to her. “Its terrifying, Christine. It hurts. Its obsession; it’s never having a single moment without you on my mind. Its wanting to kill that boy and burn that apartment building down so that I can _make_ you come home, but not doing it because I cant bear the thought of you hating me. Its hopelessness, helplessness. That’s what it feels like.”

She stared at him for a long moment, frowning. “That sounds miserable.”

“It isn’t pleasant,” he agreed quietly. “It’s much different when you’re around - when you’re home. When I know that I can take care of you, that you’re safe… why are you asking me, Christine? Why don’t you ask your boy?”

She chewed on the inside of her lip and her eyes shifted, focusing fully on the rubbery lips of his mask. “Will you kiss me?”

“Are you coming home?” he retorted, matching her soft tone.

A crease formed between her eyebrows. “Raoul knows the address… I dont know if I can.”

“We can move,” he answered quickly. “Leave the state, the country, anywhere that you want to go, kitten. Will you come home?”

She sniffed again. “I don’t know.”

“Then I can’t kiss you.”

* * *

Raoul was miserable. There was no way to honestly lie to herself about it anymore. He didn’t make much of a secret of it.

He tried to hide her pills. He only bothered twice. He never said another word about them; only sighed and did his best to be sure no alcohol was left in the house for her.

He still didn’t ask her to leave. He also didn’t ask her where she was going, what she was doing. He never asked about Erik again.

What he _did_ do was continue to bring home study guides. That was the only thing they ever really talked about anymore. It was the only topic that seemed safe enough to not start a fight. He wasn’t mean to her - he never had been - but it was obvious to Christine that he was at his wits end.

He still acted optimistic. He was more than happy to help her study, to sit down and go over the guides with her, insisting that she would do just fine as long as she didn’t psych herself out.

Only she didn’t do just fine. She failed her GED. It wasn’t by a few points. She bombed it just like she had her last math midterm.

“Hey, don’t freak out, okay?” Raoul said, trying to calm her down when she first found out. “It’s really not a big deal. You can retake it as many times as you need to.”

Then she failed it again. She did even worse the second time. They couldn’t even talk about the study guides anymore; she would snap and get defensive. She knew that it wasn’t fair, but it was like she had no control. She never really had, but she was even frustrated with herself at that point.

“I’m not stupid!” she would snap.

“I’ve never thought that, Christine. Ever. I know that you can do it. I have no idea where you even got that I think that.”

“I know you do, you’re just being nice to me. You can stop it. I don’t need you to baby me.”

The nights ended with Raoul gathering his pillow from the bed and sleeping on the couch more often than not now. She tried really hard to convince herself that he was the problem, but she knew it wasn’t true, no matter how much she wished it was.

It had always been her.

* * *

She was impossible and Erik was at his breaking point.

He had never had a vast amount of patience. Every day that ticked by with her silence agitated him more. He paced a lot. He dug his nails into his palms and upped his dosage in a sad attempt to keep from doing something rash that he might actually regret.

It was mostly because he knew she was close. That’s what he told himself, at least. The girl was undeniably miserable with the boy. It was only a matter of time but apparently, she was nearly as stubborn as he was.

He had been kind and soft and patient. He had literally killed for her. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out.

On particularly difficult nights, he would play the few recordings he did have of her. He thought it would help but it only seemed to agitate him more; to be reminded of all he had done for her, was still doing, only to be shunned.

She was sneaking around even more on the boy. The fact that Erik couldn’t even figure out what she was doing was the most frustrating bit of it all. She roamed the streets after dark and tucked away in dark places where even Erik lost sight of her. He would linger, the windows of his car rolled down so that he could listen for any sounds of distress. She would emerge, just as alone as she had been when she vanished, and slowly make her way back to the boy’s apartment, sometimes stumbling and sometimes seeming just as sober as the day he had met her. The only thing that Erik did know was that she was playing with something dangerous that she didn’t fully understand. He was so concerned that he had nearly plucked her off of the street and offered her a needle just so that he could assure himself that whatever she was getting into was at least clean.

She wasn’t _stupid_ , but she was naive. That was clear enough when she was still roaming around alone after dark.

It was one night, a full month after their impromptu meeting in the park, that she almost killed him.

Erik had only just begun to convince himself that it was time to go home when it happened. It was an unusual day overall; Christine hadn’t emerged at all the entire day. It was unusual for her, especially lately, but he tried to convince himself it was a good thing.

The frantic look on the boy’s face when he pulled the curtain back and looked across the parkinglot told him that he was wrong. There was a phone to his ear and Erik could read his agitation from across the parkinglot.

Sirens. Blue and red lights, firetrucks and an ambulance and two officers. Erik had to concentrate everything he had on holding the steering wheel tightly to keep himself from getting out and following the small army of paramedics that flooded into the boy’s apartment.

Why he had ever tried not to be selfish was lost on him; it wouldn’t have happened with him. He would have been watching her, _he_ knew what she could handle, knew what he was doing.

If she didn’t make it, nothing would stop him from wrapping his hands around the boy’s throat and twisting until he was as cold as Christine.

* * *

Her chest ached. She wasn’t sure why she took such a hard gasp of air when she woke; it was like the feeling she got when she was younger and swallowed her food too quickly. There was a hard lump in the center of her throat, right above her chest, and for just a second she thought she might be suffocating.

Someone was close to her, too close, and in a panic both of her hands shot up in a desperate attempt to create some room to breathe.

There was a cacophony of sounds, shuffling feet and a “Woah, woah, woah” from a voice that she didn’t know at all.

Her head was swimming and she coughed, trying her hardest to keep the contents of her stomach down even though it was churning violently.

The light was too bright and she squinted, looking around the room and trying to get her bearings.

“If you swing I’m gonna have to restrain you, miss. They’re just tryin’ to help.”

She touched the back of her head gently, like she just had to make sure it was still there. She couldn’t remember a thing. She was in the bathroom - she remembered that. It didn’t explain how she ended up on her back in the middle of the bedroom. Or why there were so many people in the room. Someone kept shining a light in her eyes and she wanted to tell them to stop, that it hurt, but she couldn’t find the words.

“She has asthma,” Raoul’s voice said from somewhere over by the bedroom door. “I don’t know if -”

“She’s breathing,” a voice way too close to her said.“A little confused but she’ll bounce back.”

Someone kept clicking a pen. It was driving her mad.

“Who are you?” she mumbled to the man that was leaning over her with a flashlight.“What happened?”

“You died.” He said it simply, like she was stupid for even asking. “But it’s alright - we got ya back. Thank your boyfriend for being so quick.”

She sat in stunned silence, letting the stranger press his fingers against her wrist and shine his light into her eyes. “Pills or veins?” he asked. “Your boy said he wasn’t sure.”

She blinked, looking toward that place where she had heard Raoul earlier. He was leaning against the frame of the door, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, looking at anything but her. “Pills,” she mumbled, looking back at the man kneeling beside her.

“On purpose or accident?”

She stared at him silently and he shrugged his shoulders.

“We have to ask. Your boyfriend wasn’t sure about that one either.”

“I wasn’t - I wouldn’t try to kill myself. I don’t want to die. It was an accident.”

“Well that’s good,” he said with a slight smile. Christine had already decided she didn’t like him. “You keep with those things, they will kill you eventually. We may have brought you back once but that don’t mean it’s gonna work every time. We had to hit you with three doses. We were just about to call it when you popped back up.”

She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that so she didn’t say anything at all. She just looked around the room, properly embarassed for the first time in a long time.

“You think you can walk or are we gonna have to gurney you?”

“What?” she asked blankly. “I don’t - I’m okay. I just want to go to bed.”

“Are you refusing medical attention?”

He was arrogant, she decided. That was why she didn’t like him. He acted like she was just his entertainment for the moment. Christine had no doubt that he would forget about her completely within five minutes of walking out of the door. Just another of the dozen junkies he saw in a night. “Yeah,” she answered when she realized he was still staring at her. “I think so. I really feel okay now.”

“I’m not gonna be very happy if we have to come back tonight. Take it easy. You feel sober now but it’ll only cling on for about an hour. Do us both a favor and call it a night for tonight, okay?”

“No more tonight,” she agreed. She would agree to just about anything right then if it cleared out the apartment. “I don’t want to see you again either.”

She wasn’t sure where it came from. She usually wasn’t rude and she almost braced herself. To her relief, the paramedic just smiled. “Good to hear.”

That was the last sentence anyone said to her for a while. They packed up their things and left the room. What hurt the most, out of everything, was that Raoul followed them out of the room. He didn’t even stop to check on her first.

She sat there for awhile, quiet right where they left her on the floor. She could hear low voices from the next room but she couldn’t concentrate enough to hear what they were actually saying.

Dead. That was what the paramedic said. She died. She wasn’t sure What she expected that to feel like, but it certainly wasn’t what she experienced. It was like blinking. She wasn’t sure whether that was comforting or disheartening.

Her head was pounding and she climbed into bed, burying her face deep in her pillow. She wasn’t sure how long she laid like that before Raoul finally came in, sitting on the opposite side of the mattress with his back to her.

“… Did I really die?” she whispered, turning her head to stare at his back.

His shoulders tensed and she could see the breath he took. “Yeah,” he answered eventually. “Technically, yeah. We can talk tomorrow, okay? Get some sleep, Christine.”

She bit her lip, watching him as he bent down to push his shoes off. “Are you mad at me?” she breathed.

He sighed and rolled onto the bed, laying on his back and tilting his head toward her. “I’m not mad,” he answered eventually. “How can I be? You’re sick, Christine. I’m not mad but I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

She sniffed, staring right back at him. “You’re breaking up with me?” The question even sounded pathetic to her.

“I love you,” he said quietly. It was the first time he had ever said it and he let the quiet words hang heavily in the air for a minute or two, and then he sighed again. “I thought I could help you but I… I can’t, Christine. All I’m doing is _enabling_ you. I can’t just sit here and let you kill yourself and pretend it’s all okay. You need things that I can’t give you right now. You need to heal and get healthy and I don’t think you can do that with me.”

“I can,” she said stubbornly. “I just - I’ll try harder. I’ll flush the pills and I’ll always tell you where I am and I - I don’t know.”

“I think you should do that anyway,” he said softly. “I won’t just leave you flat. I can help you find someplace - someplace that can actually help you. Somewhere where you can get some counseling and get off of the pills. It’ll be a good thing.”

" … like a grouphome," she mumbled, wiping at her eye with her wrist.

“Something like it,” he answered, giving her a weak smile. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with needing help, Christine. And who knows, maybe one day… I’ll still be here, y’know? We’ve both got a whole lotta time for relationships.”

“Yeah,” she whispered around the tight clench of anxiety in her chest.

“It’ll be a good thing. I promise. It only sounds scary because you’re overthinking it.”


End file.
